THOREAU : 
THE    POET-NATURALIST. 


THORE AU  : 


THE    POET-NATURALIST. 


it!)  JHemorfal 


BY 


WILLIAM   ELLERY   CHANNING. 

• « 


"  My  greatest  skill  has  been  to  want  but  little.  For  joy  I  could  embrace 
the  earth.  I  shall  delight  to  be  buried  in  it.  And  then  I  think  of  those 
among  men,  who  will  know  that  I  love  them,  though  I  tell  them  not."  — 
H.  D.  T. 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS      BROTHERS. 
1373. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  by 

WILLIAM   ELLERY   CHANNING, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


CAMBRIDGE: 
PRESS  OF  JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON. 


PS  3053 


DEDICA  TION. 


Silent  and  serene. 

The  plastic  soul  emancipates  her  kind. 
She  leaves  the  generations  to  their  fate, 
Uncompromised  by  grief.     She  cannot  weep  : 
She  sheds  no  tears  for  us,  —  our  mother,  Nature  / 
She  is  ne^er  rude  nor  vexed,  not  rough  or  careless; 
Out  of  temper  ne'er,  patient  as  sweet,  though  winds 
In  winter  brush  her  leaves  away,  and  time 
To  human  senses  breathes  through  frost. 

My  friend! 

Learn,  from  the  joy  of  Nature,  thus  to  be  : 
Not  only  all  resigned  to  thy  worst  fears, 
But,  like  herself,  superior  to  them  all ! 
Nor  merely  superficial  in  thy  smiles ; 
And  through  the  inmost  fibres  of  thy  heart 
May  goodness  flow,  and  fix  in  that 
The  ever-lapsing  tides,  that  lesser  depths 
Deprive  of  half  their  salience.     Be,  throughout, 
True  as  the  inmost  life  that  moves  the  world, 
And  in  demeanor  show  a  firm  content, 
Ann ih ila ting  ch a nge . 


vi  DEDICA  TION. 

Thus  Henry  lived, 

Considerate  to  his  kind.     His  love  bestowed 
Was  not  a  gift  in  fractions,  half-way  done  j 
But  with  some  mellow  goodness,  like  a  sun, 
He  shone  o'er  mortal  hearts,  and  taught  their  buds 
To  blossom  early,  thence  ripe  fruit  and  seed. 
Forbearing  too  oft  counsel,  yet  with  blows 
By  pleasing  reason  iirged  he  touched  their  thought 
As  with  a  mild  surprise,  and  they  were  good, 
Even  if  they  knew  not  whence  that  motive  came  ; 
Nor  yet  suspected  that  from  Henry >s  heart  — 
His  warm,  confiding  heart  —  the  impulse  flowed. 


"  Si  tibi  pulchra  doraus,  si  splendida  raensa,  quid  inde  ? 
Si  species  auri,  argenti  quoque  massa,  quid  inde  ? 
Si  tibi  sponsa  deeens,  si  sit  generosa,  quid  inde  1 
Si  tibi  sunt  nati,  si  praedia  raagna,  quid  inde  ? 
Si  fueris  pulcher,  fortis,  dives  ve,  quid  inde  ? 
Si  doceas  alios  in  quolibet  arte,  quid  inde  ? 
Si  longus  servorum  inserviat  ordo,  quid  inde  ? 
Si  faveat  mundus,  si  prospera  cuncta,  quid  inde  ? 
Si  prior,  aut  abbas,  si  dux,  si  papa,  quid  inde  ? 
Si  felix  annos  regnes  per  mille,  quid  inde  1 
Si  rota  fortunae  se  tollit  ad  astra,  quid  inde  ? 
Tarn  cito,  tamque  cito  fugiunt  haec  ut  nihil,  inde  ? 
Sola  rnanet  virtus  :  nos  glorificabimur,  inde. 
Ergo  Deo  pare,  bene  nam  provenit  tibi  inde." 

LAURA  BASSI'S 
Sonnet  on  the  gate  of  the  Specola  at  Bologna. 

"From  sea  and  mountain,  city  and  wilderness, 
Earth  lifts  its  solemn  voice ;  but  thou  art  fled, 
Thou  canst  no  longer  know  or  love  the  shapes 
Of  this  phantasmal  scene,  who  have  to  thee 
Been  purest  ministers-,  who  are,  alas  ! 
Now  thou  art  not.     Art  and  eloquence, 
And  all  the  shows  of  the  world,  are  frail  and  vain 
To  weep  a  loss  that  turns  their  light  to  shade  ! 
It  is  a  woe  too  deep  for  tears  when  all 
Is  reft  at  once,  when  some  surpassing  spirit 
Whose  light  adorned  the  world  around  it  leaves 
Those  who  remain  behind  nor  sobs  nor  groans, 
But  pale  despair  and  cold  tranquillity, 
Nature's  vast  frame,  the  web  of  human  things, 
Birth  and  the  grave,  that  are  not  as  they  were." 

SHELLEY. 

"  The  memory,  like  a  cloudless  sky, 
The  conscience,  like  a  sea  at  rest.' 

TENNYSON. 

"  Esperer  ou  craindre  pour  un  autre  est  la  seule  chose  qui  donne 
a  1'hoinme  le  sentiment  complet  de  sa  propre  existence." 

EUGENIE  DE  GCEUIN. 


"  For  not  a  hidden  path  that  to  the  shades 
Of  the  beloved  Parnassian  forest  leads 
Lurked  undiscovered  by  him  ;  not  a  rill 
There  issues  from  the  fount  of  Hippocrene, 
But  he  had  traced  it  upward  to  its  source, 
Through  open  glade,  dark  glen,  and  secret  dell, 
Knew  the  gay  wild-flowers  on  its  banks,  and  culled 
Its  med'cinable  herbs ;  yea,  oft  alone, 
Piercing  the  long-neglected  holy  cave, 
The  haunt  obscure  of  old  Philosophy." 

COLERIDGE. 

.    "  Such  cooling  fruit 
As  the  kind,  habitable  woods  provide/' 

MILTON. 

"  My  life  is  but  the  life  of  winds  and  tides, 
No  more  than  winds  and  tides  can  I  avail." 

KEATS. 

"  Is  this  the  mighty  ocean  ?  —  is  this  all  ?  " 

LANDOR. 

"  Then  bless  thy  secret  growth,  nor  catch 

At  noise,  but  thrive  unseen  and  dumb  ; 
Keep  clean,  bear  fruit,  earn  life,  and  watch, 
Till  the  white-winged  reapers  come." 

VAUGHAN. 

"  No  one  hates  the  sea  and  danger  more  than  I  do ;  but  I  fear 
more  not  to  do  my  duty  to  the  utmost."  —  SIR  ROBERT  WILSON. 

"  The  joyous  birds  shrouded  in  cheerful  shade, 
Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attempted  sweet ; 
Th'  angelical  soft  trembling  voices  made 
To  th'  instruments  divine  respondence  meet, 
With  the  low  murmurs  of  the  water's  fall ; 
The  water's  fall  with  difference  discreet, 
Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call ; 

The  gentle  warbling  wind  low  answered  to  all." 

SPENSER. 


PREFACE. 


DR.  JOHNSON"  says  that  in  the  dedication  to  Har 
ris's  Hermes,  of  fourteen  lines,  there  are  six  gram 
matical  faults.  This  is  as  much  as  we  could  expect  in 
an  English  pedant  whose  work  treats  of  grammar :  we 
trust  our  prologue  will  prove  more  drop-ripe,  even  if 
the  whole  prove  dull,  —  dull  as  the  last  new  comedy. 

In  a  biographic  thesis  there  can  hardly  occur  very 
much  to  amuse,  if  of  one  who  was  reflective  and  not 
passionate,  and  who  might  have  entered  like  Anthony 
Wood  in  his  journal,  "  This  day  old  Joan  began  to 
make  my  bed,"  — >an  entry  not  fine  enough  for  Walpole. 
At  the  same  time  the  account  of  a  writer's  stock  in 
trade  may  be  set  off  like  the  catalogues  of  George 
Robins,  auctioneer,  with  illustrations  even  in  Latin 
or  — 

"  The  learned  Greek,  rich  in  fit  epithets, 
Blest  in  the  lovely  marriage  of  pure  words." 

Byron's  bath  at  Newstead  Abbey  is  described  as  a 
dark  and  cellar-like  hole.  The  halos  about  the  brows  of 
authors  tarnish  with  time.  Iteration,  too,  must  be  re 
spected, —  that  law  of  Nature.  Authors  carry  their  robes 
of  state  not  on  their  backs,  but,  like  the  Indians  seen 


x  PREFACE. 

by  Wafer,  in  a  basket  behind  them,  —  "  the  times'  epit 
ome."     But  as  the  cheerful  host  says  :  — 

"  I  give  thee  all,  I  can  no  more, 
If  poor  the  offering  be," 

the  best  scraps  in  the  larder,  like  Pip's  pork-pie. 

A  literary  life  may  acquire  value  by  contrast. 
"  Never  mind  the  world,  my  dear :  you  were  never  in 
a  pleasanter  place  in  your  life.  Tenderness  is  a  virtue, 
Mr.  Twitch."  Like  the  Lady  Brilliana  Harley,  authors 
can  say  of  their  servants :  "  I  take  it  as  a  speciall  prov 
idence  of  God,  that  I  have  so  froward  a  made  aboute 
me  as  Mary  is,  sence  I  love  peace  and  quietnes  so 
well :  she  has  bene  extremely  froward  since  I  have 
bine  ill ;  I  did  not  think  that  any  would  have  bine  so 
colericke.  I  would  I  could  put  a  little  water  in  her 
wine." 

Claude  Lorraine  used  to  say,  "  I  sell  you  my  land 
scapes  :  the  figures  I  give  away."  So  there  are  patch 
work  quilts  made  by  the  saints  where  bits  of  fine  silk 
are  sewed  on  pieces  of  waste  paper,  that  seems,  madam, 
not  that  is.  But  recall  the  trope  that  very  near  to  ad 
miration  is  the  wish  to  admire,  and  permit  the  excel 
lence  of  the  subject  to  defray  in  a  measure  the  mean 
ness  of  the  treatment :  — 

"  Stars  now  vanish  without  number, 
Sleepy  planets  set  and  slumber." 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PACK 

I.  EARLY  LIFE 1 

II.  MANNERS  AND  READING 20 

III.  NATURE     .     . 47 

IV.  ANIMALS  AND  SEASONS 58 

V.  LITERARY  THEMES 68 

VI.  SPRING  AND  AUTUMN 78 

PHILOSOPHY 97 

VIII.  WALKS  AND  TALKS 120 

IX.  WALKS  AND  TALKS  CONTINUED     *.....  149 

X.  THE  LATTER  YEAR 169 

,XI.  MULTUM  IN  PARVO 187 

V/XII.  His  WRITINGS 216 

I/XIII.  PERSONALITIES 241 

XIV.  FIELD  SPORTS  263 


xii  CONTENTS. 

XV.    CHARACTERS 289 

XVI.    MORAL  .  310 


MEMORIAL  VERSES 327 

I.  To  HENRY 329 

II.  WHITE  POND 330 

HI.  A  LAMENT 334: 

IV.  MORRICE  LAKE 336 

V.  TEARS  IN  SPRING 339 

VI.  THE  MILL  BROOK 341 

VII.  STILLRIVER 344 

VIII.  TRURO   .  350 


T  H  0  R  E  A  TL 


CHAPTER  I. 

EARLY   LIFE. 
"  Wit  is  the  Soul's  powder." — DAVENANT. 

r  I  ^HE  subject  of  this  sketch  was  born  in  the 
town  of  Concord,  Mass.,  on  the  twelfth 
day  of  July,  1817.  The  old-fashioned  house  on 
the  Virginia  road,,  its  roof  nearly  reaching  to 
the  ground  in  the  rear,  remains  as  it  was  when 
Henry  David  Thoreau  first  saw  the  light  in  the 
easternmost  of  its  upper  chambers.  It  was  the 
residence  of  his  grandmother,  and  a  perfect  piece 
of  our  New  England  style  of  building,  with  its 
gray,  unpainted  boards,  its  grassy,  unfenced  door- 
yard.  The  house  is  somewhat  isolate  and  remote 
from  thoroughfares;  the  Virginia  road,  an  old- 
fashioned,  winding,  at-length-deserted  pathway, 
the  more  smiling  for  its  forked  orchards,  tum 
bling  walls,  and  mossy  banks.  About  the  house 
are  pleasant,  sunny  meadows,  deep  with  their 
beds  of  peat,  so  cheering  with  its  homely,  hearth- 
like  fragrance  ;  and  in  front  runs  a  constant  stream 


2  THOEEAU. 

through  the  centre  of  that  great  tract  sometimes 
called  "Bedford  levels,"  —  this  brook,  a  source 
of  the  Shawsheen  River.  It  was  lovely  he  should 
draw  his  first  breath  in  a  pure  country  air,  out 
of  crowded  towns,  amid  the  pleasant  russet  fields. 
His  parents  were  active,  vivacious  people ;  his 
grandfather  by  the  father's  side  coming  from  the 
Isle  of  Jersey,  a  Frenchman  and  Churchman  at 
home,  who  married  in  Boston  a  Scotch  woman 
called  Jeanie  Burns.  On  his  mother's  side  the 
descent  is  from  the  well-known  Jones  family  of 
Weston,  Mass.,  and  from  Rev.  Asa  Dunbar,  a 
graduate  of  Harvard  College,  who  preached  in 
Salem,  and  at  length  settled  in  Keene,  N.H.  As 
variable  an  ancestry  as  can  well  be  afforded,  with 
marked  family  characters  on  both  sides. 

About  a  year  and  a  half  from  Henry's  birth,  the 
family  removed  to  the  town  of  Chelmsford,  thence 
to  Boston,  coming  back  however  to  Concord,  when 
he  was  of  a  very  tender  age.  His  earliest  memory 
almost  of  the  town  was  a  ride  by  Walden  Pond  with 
his  grandmother,  when  he  thought  that  he  should 
be  glad  to  live  there.  Henry  retained  a  peculiar 
pronunciation  of  the  letter  r,  with  a  decided  French 
accent.  He  says,  "  September  is  the  first  month 
with  a  burr  in  it ; "  and  his  speech  always  had  an 
emphasis,  a  burr  in  it.  His  great-grandmother's 
name  was  Marie  le  Galais ;  and  his  grandfather, 


EARLY  LIFE.  3 

John  Thoreau,  was  baptized  April  28,  1754,  and 
took  the  Anglican  sacrament  in  the  parish  of  St. 
Helier  (Isle  of  Jersey),  in  May,  1773.  Thus  near 
to  old  France  and  the  Church  was  our  Yankee 
boy. 

He  drove  his  cow  to  pasture,  barefoot,  like  other 
village  boys,  and  was  known  among  the  lads  of  his 
age  as  one  who  did  not  fear  mud  or  water,  nor 
paused  to  lift  his  followers  over  the  ditch.  So  in 
his  later  journeys,  if  his  companion  was  footsore 
and  loitered,  he  steadily  pursued  the  road,  making 
his  strength  self-serviceable. 

"  Who  sturdily  could  gang, 
Who  cared  neither  for  wind  nor  wet, 
In  lands  where'er  he  past." 

That  wildness  that  in  him  nothing  could  subdue 
still  lay  beneath  his  culture.  Once  when  a  fol 
lower  was  done  up  with  headache  and  incapable  of 
motion,  hoping  his  associate  would  comfort  him 
and  perhaps  afford  him  a  sip  of  tea,  he  said, 
"  There  are  people  who  are  sick  in  that  way  every 
morning,  and  go  about  their  affairs,"  and  then 
marched  off  about  his.  In  such  limits,  so  inevita 
ble,  was  he  compacted. 

Thoreau  was  not  of  those  who  linger  on  the 
past :  he  had  little  to  say  and  less  to  think  of  the 
houses  or  thoughts  in  which  he  had  lived.  They 
were,  indeed,  many  mansions.  He  was  ertered 


4  THOEEAU. 

of  Harvard  College  in  the  year YL833,  afcd  was  a 
righteous  and  respectable  student,  having  done  a 
bold  reading  in  English  poetry,  mastering  Chal- 
jxiers's  collection,  even  to  some  portions  or  the 
whole  of  Davenant's  Gondibert.  He  made  no 
college  acquaintance  which  served  him  practically 
in  after  life,  and  partially  escaped  "  his  class," 
admiring  the  memory  of  the  class  secretary.  No 
doubt,  the  important  event  to  him  in  early  man 
hood  was  his  journey  to  the  White  Mountains 
with  his  only  brother  John,  who  was  the  elder, 
and  to  whom  he  was  greatly  attached.  With  this 
brother  he  kept  the  Academy  in  Concord  for  a 
year  or  two  directly  after  leaving  college.  This 
piece  of  travel  by  boat  and  afoot  was  one  of  the 
excursions  which  furnish  dates  to  his  life.  The 
next  important  business  outwardly  was  building 
for  himself'  a  small  house  close  by  the  shore  of 
Walden  Pond  in  Concord,  the  result  of  economic 
forethought.  It  was  a  durable  garment,  an  over 
coat,  he  had  contrived  and  left  by  Walden,  con 
venient  for  shelter,  sleep,  or  meditation.  It  had 
no  lock  to  the  door,  no  curtain  to  the  window,  and 
belonged  to  nature  nearly  as  much  as  to  man. 
His  business  taught  him  expedients  to  husband 
time :  in  our  victimizing  climate  he  was  fitted  for 
storms  or  bad  walking ;  his  coat  must  contain 
special  convenience  for  a  walker,  with  a  note-book 


EARLY  LIFE.  5 

and  spy  glass,  —  a  soldier  in  his  outfits.  For  shoddy 
ho  had  an  aversion:  a  pattern  of  solid  Vermont 
gray  gave  him  genuine  satisfaction,  and  he  could 
think  of  corduroy.  His  life  was  of  one  fabric. 
He  spared  the  outfitters  no  trouble ;  he  wished  the 
material  cut  to  suit  him,  as  he  was  to  wear  it,  not 
worshipping  "the  fashion"  in  cloth  or  opinion. 
He  bought  but  few  things,  and  "  those  not  till 
long  after  he  began  to  want  them,  so  that  when 
he  did  get  them  he  was  prepared  to  make  a  perfect 
use  of  them  and  extract  their  whole  sweet.  For 
if  he  was  a  mystic  or  transcendentalist,  he  was 
also  a  natural  philosopher  to  boot."  He  did 
not  live  to  health  or  exercise  or  dissipation,  but 
work ;  his  diet  spare,  his  vigor  supreme,  his  toil 
incessant.  Not  one  man  in  a  million  loses  so  few 
of  the  hours  of  life ;  and  he"  found  soon  what 
were  "  the  best  things  in  his  composition,  and  then 
shaped  the  rest  to  fit  them.  The  former  were  the 
midrib  and  veins  of  the  leaf."  Few  were  better 
fitted.  He  had  an  unusual  .degree  of  mechanic 
skill,  and  the  hand  that  wrote  "Walden"  and 
"  The  Week"  could  build  a  boat  or  a  house. 

Sometimes  he  picked  a  scanty  drift-wood  from 
his  native  stream,  and  made  good  book-cases, 
chests,  and  cabinets  for  his  study.  I  have  seen 
the  friendly  "  wreck "  drying  by  his  little  air 
tight  stove  for  those  homely  purposes.  He  bound 


6  THOREAU. 

his  own  books,  and  measured  the  farmers'  fields  in 
his  village  by  chain  or  compass.  In  more  than 
one  the  bounds  were  detected  by  the  surveyor, 
who  was  fond  of  metes  and  bounds  in  morals 
and  deeds.  Thus  he  came  to  see  the  inside  of 
almost  every  farmer's  house  and  head,  his  "pot 
of  beans  "  and  mug  of  hard  cider.  Never  in  too 
much  hurry  for  a  dish  of  gossip,  he  could  "  sit  out 
the  oldest  frequenter  of  the  bar-room,"  as  he 
believed,  and  was  alive  from  top  to  toe  with  curios 
ity,  —  a  process,  it  is  true,  not  latent  in  our  people. 
But  if  he  learned,  so  he  taught ;  and  says  he 
"  could  take  one  or  twenty  into  partnership,  gladly 
share  his  gains."  On  his  return  from  a  journey, 
he  not  only  emptied  his  pack  of  flowers,  shells, 
seeds,  and  other  treasures,  but  liberally  contributed 
every  fine  or  pleasant  or  desirable  experience  to 
those  who  needed,  as  the  milkweed  distributes  its 
lustrous,  silken  seeds. 

He  was  a  natural  Stoic,  not  taught  from  Epic- 
tetus  nor  the  trail  of  Indians.  Not  only  made  he 
no  complaint,  but  in  him  was  no  background  of  com 
plaint,  as  in  some,  where  a  lifelong  tragedy  dances 
in  polished  fetters.  He  enjoyed  what  sadness  he 
could  find.  He  would  be  as  melancholy  as  he 
could  and  rejoice  with  fate.  "  Who  knows  but  he 
is  dead  already  ?  "  He  voyaged  about  his  river  in 
December,  the  drops  freezing  on  the  oar,  with  a 


EAELY  LIFE.  7 

cheering  song ;  pleased  with  the  silvery  chime  of 
icicles  against  the  stems  of  the  button-bushes,  toys 
of  "  immortal  water,  alive  even  to  the  superficies." 
The  blaze  of  July  and  the  zero  of  January  came 
to  him  as  wholesome  experiences,  —  the  gifts  of 
Nature,  as  he  deemed  them.  He  desired  to  im 
prove  every  opportunity,  to  find  a  good  in  each 
moment,  not  choosing  alone  the  blissful.  He  said 
that  he  could  not  always  eat  his  pound  cake ; 
while  corn  meal  lasted  he  had  resource  against 
hunger,  nor  did  he  expect  or  wish  for  luxuries,, 
and  would  have  been  glad  of  that  Indian  delicacy, 
acorn  oil.  "  It  was  from  out  the  shadow  of  his 
toil  he  looked  into  'the  light." 

Thoreau  says  that  he  knew  he  loved  some 
things,  and  could  fall  back  on  them ;  and  that  he 
"  never  chanced  to  meet  with  any  man  so  cheering 
and  elevating  and  encouraging,  so  infinitely  sugges 
tive,  as  the  stillness  and  solitude  of  the  Well- 
meadow  field."  His  interest  in  swamps  and  bogs 
was  familiar  :  it  grew  out  of  his  love  for  the  wild. 
He  thought  that  he  enjoyed  himself  in  Gowing's 
Swamp,  where  the  hairy  huckleberry  grows,  equal 
to  a  domain  secured  to  him  and  reaching  to  the 
South  Sea ;  and,  for  a  moment,  experienced  there 
the  same  sensation  as  if  he  were  alone  in  a  bog  in 
Rupert's  Land,  thus,  also,  saved  the  trouble  of 
going  there.  The  small  cranberries  (not  the  com- 


8  .'  THOEEAU. 

mon  species)  looked  to  him  "just  like  some  kind 
of  swamp-sparrow's  eggs  in  their  nest;  like  jewels 
worn  or  set  in  those  sphagneous  breasts  of  the 
swamp, — swamp  pearls  we  might  call  them."  It 
was  the  bog  in  our  brain  and  bowels,  the  primitive 
vigor  of  nature  in  us,  that  inspired  that  dream ; 
for  Rupert's  Land  is  recognized  as  surely  by  one 
sense  as  another.  "  Where  was  that  strain  mixed 
into  which  the  world  was  dropped  but  as  a  lump  of 
sugar  to  sweeten  the  draught  ?  I  would  be  drunk, 
drunk,  drunk,  —  dead-drunk  to  this  world  with  it 
for  ever !  " 

"  Kings  unborn  shall  walk  with  me ; 
And  the  poor  grass  shall  plot  and  plan 
What  it  will  do  when  it  is  man." 

This  tone  of  mind  grew  out  of  no  insensibility ; 
or,  if  he  sometimes  looked  coldly  on  the  suffering 
of  more  tender  natures,  he  sympathized  with  their 
afflictions,  but  could  do  nothing  to  admire  them. 
He  would  not  injure  a  plant  unnecessarily.  And 
once  meeting  two  scoundrels  who  had  been  rude 
to  a  young  girl  near  Walden  Pond,  he  took  instant 
means  for  their  arrest,  and  taught  them  not  to 
repeat  that  offence.  One  who  is  greatly  affected 
by  the  commission  of  an  ignoble  act  cannot  want 
sentiment.  At  the  time  of  the  John  Brown 
tragedy,  Thoreau  was  driven  sick.  So  the  coun 
try's  misfortunes  in  the  Union  war  acted  on  his 


EARLY  LIFE.  9 

feelings    with    great    force :    lie   used    to   say   lie 
"  could  never  recover  while  the  war  lasted." 

The  high  moral  impulse  never  deserted  him,  and 
he  resolved  early  "  to  read  no  book,  take  no  walk, 
undertake  no  enterprise,  but  such  as  he  could 
endure  to  give  an  account  of  to  himself;  and 
live  thus  deliberately  for  the  most  part."  In  our 
estimate  of  his  character,  the  moral  qualities  form 
the  basis :  for  himself,  rigidly  enjoined ;  if  in  another, 
he  could  overlook  delinquency.  JTrujth,  before 
all  things  ;  in  your  daily  life,  integrity  before  all 
things ;  in  all  your  thoughts,  your  faintest  breath, 
the  austerest  purity,  the  utmost  fulfilling  of  the 
interior  law ;  faith  in  friends,  and  an  iron  and 
flinty  pursuit  of  right,  which  nothing  can  tease 
or  purchase  out  of  us.  If  he  made  an  engage 
ment,  he  was  certain  to  fulfil  his  part  of  the  con 
tract  ;  and  if  the  other  contractor  failed,  then  his 
rigor  of  opinion  prevailed,  and  he  never  more  dealt 
with  that  particular  bankrupt. 

"  Merchants,  arise 
And  mingle  conscience  with  your  merchandise." 

Thus,  too,  when  an  editor  left  out  this  sentence 
from  one  of  his  pieces,  about  the  pine-tree,  —  "  It 
is  as  immortal  as  I  am,  and  perchance  will  go  to  as 
high  a  heaven,  there  to  tower  above  me  still,"  — 
Thoreau,  having  given  no  authority,  considered 
the  bounds  of  right  were  passed,  and  no  more 
l* 


10  THOREAU. 

indulged  in  that  editor.  His  opinion  of  publishers 
was  not  flattering.  For  several  of  his  best  papers 
he  received  nothing  in  cash,  his  pay  coming  in 
promises.  When  it  was  found  that  his  writing 
was  like  to  be  popular,  merchants  were  ready  to 
run  and  pay  for  it.  Soap-grease  is  not  diamond ; 
to  use  a  saying  of  his,  "  Thank  God,  they  cannot 
cut  down  the  clouds."  To  the  work  of  every 
man  justice  will  be  measured,  after  the  individual 
is  forgotten.  So  long  as  our  plain  country  is 
admired,  the  books  of  our  author  should  give 
pleasure,  pictures  as  they  are  of  the  great  natural 
features,  illustrated  faithfully  with  details  of  smaller 
beauties,  and  having  the  pleasant,  nutty  flavor 
of  New  England. 

The  chief  attraction  of  "  The  Week  "  and  "  Wai- 
den  "  to  pure  and  aspiring  natures  consists  in  their 
lofty  and  practical  morality.  To  live  rightly, 
never  to  swerve,  and  to  believe  that  we  have  in 
ourselves  a  drop  of  the  Original  Goodness  besides 
the  well-known  deluge  of  original  sin,  —  these 
strains  sing  through  Thoreau's  writings.  Yet  he 
seemed  to  some  as  the  winter  he  once  describes, 
— "  hard  and  bound-out  like  a  bone  thrown  to  a 
famishing  dog."  The  intensity  of  his  mind,  like 
Dante's,  conveyed  the  breathing  of  aloofness,  —  his 
eyes  bent  on  the  ground,  his  long,  swinging  gait, 
his  hands  perhaps  clasped  behind  him  or  held 


EARLY  LIFE.  11 

closely  at  his  side,  the  fingers  made  into  a  fist. 
Yet,  like  the  lock-tender  at  Middlesex,  "  he  was 
meditating  some  vast  and  sunny  problem,"  or  giving 
its  date  to  a  humble  flower.  He  did,  in  one  man 
ner,  live  in  himself,  as  the  poet  says,  — 

"  Be  thy  own  palace,  or  the  world  's  thy  jail ;  " 

or  as  Antoninus,  "  Do  but  few  things  at  a  time, 
it  has  been  said,  if  thou  would'st  preserve  thy 
peace." 

A  pleasing  trait  of  his  warm  feeling  is  remem 
bered,  when  he  asked  his  mother,  before  leaving 
college,  what  profession  to  choose,  and  she  replied 
pleasantly,  "  You  can  buckle  011  your  knapsack, 
and  roam  abroad  to  seek  your  fortune."  The 
tears  came  in  his  eyes  and  rolled  down  his  cheeks, 
when  his  sister  Helen,  who  was  standing  by,  ten 
derly  put  her  arm  around  him  and  kissed  him,  say 
ing,  "  No,  Henry,  you  shall  not  go :  you  shall  stay 
at  home  and  live  with  us."  He  also  had  the  firm 
ness  of  the  Indian,  and  could  repress  his  pathos ; 
as  when  he  carried  (about  the  age  of  ten)  his  pet 
chickens  to  an  innkeeper  for  sale  in  a  basket,  who 
thereupon  told  him  "  to  stop"  and  for  convenience' 
sake  took  them  out  one  by  one  and  wrung  their 
several  pretty  necks  before  the  poor  boy's  eyes,  who 
did  not  budge.  He  had  such  seriousness  at  the 
same  age  that  he  was  called  "judge."  His  habit 


12  TEOEEAU. 


of  attending  strictly  to  his  own  affairs  appears 
from  this,  that  being  complained  of  for  taking  a 
knife  belonging  to  another  boy,  Henry  said,  "  I 
did  not  take  it,"  —  and  was  believed.  In  a  few 
days  the  culprit  was  found,  and  Henry  then  said, 

,"I  knew  all  the  time  who  it  was,  and  the  day  it 
was  taken  I  went  to  Newton  with  father."  "  Well, 
then,"  of  course,  was  the  question,  "  why  did  you 
not  say  so  at  the  time  ?  "  "  I  did  not  take  it,"  was 
his  reply.  This  little  anecdote  is  a  key  to  many 
traits  in  his  character.  A  school-fellow  complained 
of  him  because  he  would  not  make  him  a  bow  and 
arrow,  his  skill  at  whittling  being  superior.  It 
seems  he  refused,  but  it  came  out  after  that  he  had 
no  knife.  So,  through  life,  he  steadily  declined 
trying  or  pretending  to  do  what  he  had  no  means  to 
execute,  yet  forbore  explanations  ;  and  some  have 
thought  his  refusals  were  unwillingness.  When 
he  had  grown  to  an  age  suitable  for  company,  and 
not  very  fond  of  visiting,  he  could  not  give  the 
common  refusal,  —  that  it  was  not  convenient,  or 
not  in  his  power,  or  he  regretted,  —  but  said  the 
truth,  —  "I  do  not  want  to  go."  An  early  anec 
dote  remains  of  his  being  told  at  three  years  that 
he  must  die,  as  well  as  the  men  in  the  catechism. 
He  said  he  did  not  want  to  die,  but  was  reconciled  ; 
yet,  coming  in  from  coasting,  he  said  he  "  did  not 
want  to  die  and  go  to  heaven,  because  he  could 


EARLY  LIFE.  13 

not  carry  his  sled  with  him  ;  for  the  boys  said,  as  it 
was  not  shod  with  iron,  it  was  not  worth  a  cent." 
This  answer  prophesied  the  future  man,  who  never 
could,  nor  did,  believe  in  a  heaven  to  which  he 
could  not  carry  his  views  and  principles,  some 
of  which  were  not  shod  with  the  vanity  of  this 
world,  and  pronounced  worthless.  In  his  later 
life,  on  being  conversed  with  about  leaving  here  as 
a  finality,  he  replied  that  "  he  thought  he  should 
not  go  away  from  here." 

With  his  peculiarities,  he  did  not  fail  to  be  set 
down  by  some  as  an  original,  —  one  of  those  who 
devise  needlessly  new  ways  to  think  or  act.  His 
retreat  from  the  domestic  camp  to  picket  duty  at 
Walden  gave  rise  to  sinister  criticism,  and  the 
common  question  he  was  asked  while  there,  "  What 
do  you  live  here  for  ?  "  as  the  man  wished  to  know 
who  lost  his  hound,  but  was  so  astonished  at  find 
ing  Henry  in  the  woods,  as  quite  to  forget  the 
stray  dog.  He  had  lost  his  hound,  but  he  had 
found  a  man.  As  we  learn  from  the  verse,  — 

"  He  that  believes  himself  doth  never  lie," 

so  Thoreau  lived  a  true  life  in  having  his  own 
belief  in  it.  We  may  profitably  distinguish  between 
that  sham  egotism  which  sets  itself  above  all  other 
values,  and  that  loyal  faith  in  our  instincts  on 
which  all  sincere  living  rests.  His  life  was  a 


14  THOREAU. 

healthy  utterance,  a  free  and  vital  progress,  joyous 

and  serene,  and  thus  proving  its  value.      If   he 

/passed  by  forms  that  others  hold,  it  was  because 

vhis  time  and  means  were  invested  elsewhere.     To 

do  one  thing  well,  to  persevere,  and  accomplish  one 

^tiring  perfectly,  was  his  faith;    arid  he  said  that 

fame  was  sweet,  "  as  the  evidence  that  the  effort 

was  a  success." 

Henry,  from  his  childhood,  had  quite  a  peculiar 
interest  in  the  place  of  his  birth,  —  Concord.  He 
lived  nowhere  else  for  any  length  of  time,  and 
Staten  Island,  or  the  White  Hills,  or  New  Bedford, 
seemed  little  to  him  contrasted  with  that.  I  think 
he  loved  Cape  Cod.  The  phrase  local  associations , 
or  the  delightful  word  home,  do  not  explain  his 
absorbing  love  for  a  town  with  few  picturesque 
attractions  beside  its  river.  Concord  is  mostly 
plain  land,  with  a  sandy  soil ;  or,  on  the  river, 
wide  meadows,  covered  with  wild  grass,  and  apt  to 
be  flooded  twice  a  year  and  changed  to  shallow 
ponds.  The  absence  of  striking  scenery,  unpleas- 
ing  to  the  tourist,  is  an  advantage  to  the  naturalist : 
too  much  farming  and  gentlemen's  estates  are  in 
his  way.  Concord  contains  an  unusual  extent  of 
wood  and  meadow ;  and  the  wood-lots,  when  cut 
off,  are  usually  continued  for  the  same  purpose. 
So  it  is  a  village  surrounded  by  tracts  of  woodland 
and  meadow,  abounding  in  convenient  yet  retired 
paths  for  walking. 


EARLY  LIFE.  15 

No  better  place  for  his  business.  He  enjoyed 
its  use  because  he  found  there  his  materials  for 
work.  Perhaps  the  river  was  his  great  blessing 
in  the  landscape.  No  better  stream  for  boating  in 
New  England,  —  "  the  sluggish  artery  of  the  Con 
cord,"  as  he  names  it.  By  this,  he  could  go  to 
other  points ;  as  a  trip  up  the  river  rarely  ended 
with  the  water,  but  the  shore  was  sought  for  some 
special  purpose,  to  examine  an  animal  or  a  plant, 
or  get  a  wider  view,  or  collect  some  novelty  or 
jrop.  The  study  of  the  river-plants  never  ended, 
and  like  themselves  floated  for  ever  with  the  sweet 
waves ;  the  birds  and  insects  peculiarly  attracted 
to  the  shores ;  the  fish  and  musquash,  sun  and 
wind,  were  interesting.  The  first  spring  days 
smile  softest  on  the  river,  and  the  fleet  of  withered 
leaves  sailing  down  the  stream  in  autumn  give  a 
stately  finish  to  the  commerce  of  the  seasons. 

The  hills,  Anursnac,  Nashawtuc,  Fairhaven,  are 
not  lofty.  Yet  they  have  sufficient  outlook,  and 
carry  the  eye  to  Monadnock  and  the  Peterboro* 
Hills,  while  nearer  blue  Wachusett  stands  alone. 

Thoreau  visited  more  than  once  the  principal 
mountains  in  his  prospect.  It  was  like  looking 
off  on  a  series  of  old  homes.  He  went  in  the 
choice  August  or  September  days,  and  picked 
berries  on  Monadnock's  stony  plateau,  took  his 
roomy  walk  over  the  Mason  Hills,  or  explored  the 


16  THOREAU. 

great  Wachusett  pasture,  —  the  fairest  sight  eye 
ever  saw.  For  daily  talk,  Fairhaven  answered  very 
well.  From  this  may  be  seen  that  inexhaustible 
expanse,  Conantum,  with  its  homely  slopes  ;  thence 
Blue  Hill,  Nobscot,  the  great  elm  of  Western,  and 
Prospect  Hill.  From  the  hills,  always  the  stream, 
the  bridges,  the  meadows :  the  latter,  when  flowed, 
the  finest  place  for  ducks  and  gulls  ;  whilst  in  their 
dry  dress  they  furnish  opportunities,  from  Copan 
down  to  Carlisle  Bridge,  or  from  Lee's  to  the 
causey  in  Wayland,  for  exploration  in  the  mines  of 
natural  history.  As  the  life  of  a  hunter  furnishes 
an  endless  story  of  wood  and  field,  though  pursued 
alone,  so  Nature  has  this  inevitable  abundance  to 
the  naturalist ;  to  the  docile  eye,  a  meadow-spring 
can  furnish  a  tide  of  discourse. 

Three  spacious  tracts,  uncultivated,  where  the 
patches  of  scrub-oak,  wild  apples,  barberries,  and 
other  plants  grew,  which  Mr.  Thoreau  admired, 
were  Walden  woods,  the  Estabrook  country,  and 
the  old  Marlboro'  road.  A  poem  on  the  latter 
crops  out  of  his  strictures  on  "  Walking."  They 
represent  the  fact  as  botanists,  naturalists,  or  walk 
ers  would  have  it,  —  in  a  russet  suit  for  field  sports, 
not  too  much  ploughed  and  furrowed  out,  with  an 
eye  looking  to  the  sky.  (Thoreau  said  that  his 
heaven  was  south  or  south-west,  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  the  old  Marlboro'  road.)  They  have  their 


EARLY  LIFE.  17 

ponds,  choice  fields  or  plants,  in  many  cases  care 
fully  hid  away.  He  was  compelled  to  name  places 
for  himself,  like  all  fresh  explorers.  His  Utricularia 
Bay,  Mount  Misery,  Cohosh  Swamp,  Blue  Heron 
Rock,  Pleasant  Meadow,  Scrub-oak  Plain,  denote 
localities  near  Fairhaven.  He  held  to  the  old  titles  ; 
thus,  —  the  Holt  (in  old  English,  a  small,  wooded 
tongue  of  land  in  a  river),  Beck  S  tow's  Hole,  Seven- 
star  Lane,  and  the  "  Price  Road."  He  knew  the 
woods  as  a  poet  and  engineer,  and  studied  their  suc 
cessions,  the  growth  and  age  of  each  patch,  from 
year  to  year,  with  the  chiefs  of  the  forest,  the  white- 
pine,  the  pitch-pine,  and  the  oak.  Single  localities 
of  plants  occur :  in  Mason's  pasture  is,  or  was,  a 
bayberry;  on  Fairhaven,  a  patch  of  yew.  Some 
warm  side  hills  afford  a  natural  greenhouse.  Thus 
Lee's  Cliff,  on  Fairhaven  Pond,  shelters  early  cress 
and  tower  mustard,  as  well  as  pewees.  If  the 
poet's  faculty  be  naming,  he  can  find  applications 
for  it  in  the  country.  Thoreau  had  his  Thrush 
Alley  and  Stachys  Shore. 

A  notice  of  him  would  be  incomplete  which  did 
not  refer  to  his  fine  social  qualities.  He  served  his 
friends  sincerely  and  practically.  In  his  own  home 
he  was  one  of  those  characters  who  may  be  called 
household  treasures :  always  on  the  spot  with  skil 
ful  eye  and  hand  to  raise  the  best  melons  in  the 
garden,  plant  the  orchard  with  the  choicest  trees, 


18  THOREAU. 

act  as  extempore  mechanic ;  fond  of  the  pets,  the 
sister's  flowers,  or  sacred  Tabby,  kittens  being  his 
favorites,  —  he  would  play  with  them  by  the  half- 
hour. 

Some  have  fancied  because  he  moved  to  Walden 
he  left  his  family.  He  bivouacked  there,  and  really 
lived  at  home,  where  he  went  every  day.  It  is 
needless  to  dwell  on  the  genial  and  hospitable  enter 
tainer  he  always  was.  His  readers  came  many 
miles  to  see  him,  attracted  by  his  writings.  Those 
who  could  not  come  sent  their  letters.  Those  who 
came  when  they  could  no  more  see  him,  as  strangers 
on  a  pilgrimage,  seemed  as  if  they  had  been  his 
intimates,  so  warm  and  cordial  was  the  sympathy 
they  received  from  his  letters.  If  he  also  did  the 
duties  that  lay  nearest  and  satisfied  those  in  his 
immediate  circle,  certainly  he  did  a  good  work ;  and 
whatever  the  impressions  from  the  theoretical  part 
of  his  writings,  when  the  matter  is  probed  to  the 
bottom,  good  sense  and  good  feeling  will  be  detected 
in  it.  A  great  comfort  in  him,  he  was  eminently 
reliable.  No  whim  of  coldness,  no  absorption  of 
his  tune  by  public  or  private  business,  deprived 
those  to  whom  he  belonged  of  his  kindness  and 
affection.  He  was  at  the  mercy  of  no  caprice :  of 
a  reliable  will  and  uncompromising  sternness  in  his 
moral  nature,  he  carried  the  same  qualities  into  his 
relation  with  others,  and  gave  them  the  best  he  had, 


EAELY  LIFE.  0  19 

without  stint.  He  loved  firmly,  acted  up  to  his 
love,  was  a  believer  in  it,  took  pleasure  and  satisfac 
tion  in  abiding  by  it.  As  Thomas  Froysell  says  of 
Sir  Robert  Harley,  —  "  My  language  is  not  a  match 
for  his  excellent  virtues ;  his  spirituall  lineaments 
and  beauties  are  above  my  pencil.  I  want  art  to 
draw  his  picture.  I  know  he  had  his  humanities. 
.  .  .  He  was  a  friend  to  God's  friends.  They  that 
did  love  God  had  his  love.  God's  people  were  his 
darlings ;  they  had  the  cream  of  his  affection.  If 
any  poor  Christian  were  crushed  by  malice  or 
wrong,  whither  would  they  fly  but  to  Sir  Robert 
Harley?" 


20  THOREAU. 


CHAPTER  II. 

MANNERS    AND    READING. 
"  Since  they  can  only  judge,  who  can  confer."  — BEN  JONSON. 

"VT  7"E  hear  complaint  that  he  set  up  for  a  re 
former  ;  and  what  capital,  then,  had  he  to 
embark  in  that  line?  How  was  it  he  knew  so 
much  more  than  the  rest,  as  to  correct  abuses,  to 
make  over  church  and  state  ?  He  had  no  reform 
theories,  but  used  his  opinions  in  literature  for  the 
benefit  of  man  and  the  glory  of  God.  Advice  he 
did  not  give.  His  exhortations  to  young  students 
and  poor  Christians  who  desired  to  know  his  econ 
omy  never  meant  to  exclude  the  reasonable  chari 
ties.  Critics  have  eagerly  rushed  and  made  the 
modest  citizen  and  "home-body"  one  of  the  trav 
elling  conversational  Shylocks,  who  seek  their  pound 
of  flesh  in  swallowing  humanity,  each  the  special 
saviour  on  his  own  responsibility.  As  he  says  of 
reformers,  "  They  addressed  each  other  continually 
by  their  Christian  names,  and  rubbed  you  contin 
ually  with  the  greasy  cheek  of  their  kindness. 
They  would  not  keep  their  distance,  but  cuddle  up 
and  lie  spoon-fashion  with  you,  no  matter  how  hot 
the  weather  or  how  narrow  the  bed.  .  .  It  was 


MANNEES  AND  READING.  21 

difficult  to  keep  clear  of  the  slimy  benignity  with 
which  he  sought  to  cover  you,  before  he  took 
you  fairly  into  his  bowels.  He  addressed  me  as 
Henry,  within  one  minute  from  the  time  I  first  laid 
eyes  on  him;  and  when  I  spoke,  he  said,  with 
drawling,  sultry  sympathy:  'Henry,  I  know  all 
you  would  say,  I  understand  you  perfectly:  you 
need  not  explain  any  thing  to  me.' '  Neither  did 
he  belong  to  the  "Mutual  Admiration"  society, 
where  the  dunce  passes  for  gold  by  rubbing  his 
fractional  currency  on  pure  metal.  His  was  not 
an  admiring  character. 

The  opinion  of  some  of  his  readers  and  lovers 
has  been  that  in  his  "  Week  "  the  best  is  the  dis 
course  of  Friendship.  It  is  certainly  a  good  speci 
men  of  his  peculiar  style,  but  it  should  never  be 
forgot  that  the  treatment  is  poetical  and  romantic. 
No  writer  more  demands  that  his  reader,  his  critic, 
should  look  at  his  writing  as  a  work  of  art.  Because 
Michel  Angelo  painted  the  Last  Judgment,  we  do 
not  accuse  him  of  being  a  judge :  he  is  working  as 
artist.  So  our  author,  in  his  writing  on  Friendship, 
treats  the  topic  in  a  too  distant  fashion.  Some 
might  call  it  a  lampoon :  others  say,  "  Why,  this 
watery,  moonlit  glance  and  glimpse  contains  no 
more  of  the  flesh  and  blood  of  friendship  than  so 
much  lay-figure  ;  if  this  was  all  the  writer  knew  of 
Friendship,  he  had  better  have  sheared  off  and  let 


22  THOREAU* 

this  craft  go  free."  As  when  he  says,  "  One  goes 
forth  prepared  to  say  '  Sweet  friends  ! '  and  the  sal 
utation  is,  4  Damn  your  eyes ! '"  —  to  read  this  liter 
ally  would  be  to  accuse  him  of  stupidity.  The 
meaning  is  plain :  he  was  romancing  with  his  sub 
ject,  playing  a  strain  on  his  "theorbo"  like  the 
bobolink.  The  living,  actual  friendship  and  affection 
which  makes  time  a  reality,  no  one  knew  better. 
He  gossips  of  a  high,  imaginary  world,  giving  a 
glance  to  the  inhabitants  of  this  world  of  that; 
bringing  a  few  mother-of-pearl  tints  from  the  skies 
to  refresh  us  in  our  native  place.  He  did  not  wish 
for  a  set  of  cheap  friends  to  eat  up  his  time ;  was 
rich  enough  to  go  without  a  train  of  poor  relations, 
—  the  menagerie  of  dunces  with  open  mouths.  In 
the  best  and  practical  sense,  no  one  had  more 
friends  or  was  better  loved.  He  drew  near  him 
simple,  unlettered  Christians,  who  had  questions 
they  wished  to  discuss ;  for,  though  nothing  was  less 
to  his  mind  than  chopped  logic,  he  was  ready  to 
accommodate  those  who  differed  from  him  with  his 
opinion,  and  never  too  much  convinced  by  opposi 
tion.  And  to  those  in  need  of  information  —  to 
the  farmer-botanist  naming  the  new  flower,  the 
boy  with  his  puzzle  of  birds  or  roads,  or  the  young 
woman  seeking  for  books  —  he  was  always  ready 
to  give  what  he  had. 

Literally,  his  views  of  friendship  were  high  and 


MANNERS  AND  READING.  23 

noble.  Those  who  loved  him  never  had  the  least 
reason  to  regret  it.  He  made  no  useless  profes 
sions,  never  asked  one  of  those  questions  which 
destroy  all  relation  ;  but  he  was  on  the  spot  at  the 
time,  and  had  so  much  of  human  life  in  his  keep 
ing,  to  the  last,  that  he  could  spare  a  breathing 
place  for  a  friend.  When  one  said  that  a  change 
had  come  over  the  dream  of  life,  and  that  solitude 
began  to  peer  out  curiously  from  the  dells  and  wood- 
roads,  he  whispered,  with  his  foot  on  the  step  of 
the  other  world,  "It  is  better  some  things  should 
end."  Having  this  unfaltering  faith,  and  looking 
thus  on  life  and  death,  after  which,  the  poet  says, 
a  man  has  nothing  to  fear,  let  it  be  said  for  ever 
that  there  was  no  affectation  or  hesitancy  in  his 
dealing  with  his  friends.  He  meant  friendship,  and 
meant  nothing  else,  and  stood  by  it  without  the 
slightest  abatement ;  not  veering  as  a  weathercock 
with  each  shift  of  a  friend's  fortune,  or  like  those 
who  bury  their  early  friendships  in  order  to  gain 
room  for  fresh  corpses.  If  he  was  of  a  Spartan 
mould,  in  a  manner  austere,  if  his  fortune  was  not 
vast,  and  his  learning  somewhat  special,  he  yet  had 
what  is  better,  —  the  old  Roman  belief  which  con 
fided  there  was  more  in  this  life  than  applause  and 
the.  best  seat  at  the  dinner-table  :  to  have  a  moment 
to  spare  to  thought  and  imagination,  and  to  the  res 
rusticce  and  those  who  need  you ; 


24  THOREAU. 

"  That  hath  no  side  at  all 
But  of  himself." 

A  pleasant  account  of  his  easy  assimilation  is 
given  of  his  visit  to  Canton,  where  in  his  Soph 
omore  year  he  kept  a  school  of  seventy  pupils,  and 
where  he  was  consigned  to  the  care  of  Rev.  O.  A. 
Brownson,  then  a  Unitarian  clergyman,  for  exam 
ination.  The  two  sat  up  talking  till  midnight,  and 
Mr.  Brownson  informed  the  "  School  Committee  " 
that  Mr.  Thoreau  was  examined,  and  would  do, 
and  board  with  him.  So  they  struck  heartily  to 
studying  German,  and  getting  all  they  could  of  the 
time  together  like  old  friends.  Another  school 
experience  was  the  town  school  in  Concord,  which 
he  took  after  leaving  college,  announcing  that  he 
should  not  flog,  but  would  talk  morals  as  a  punish 
ment  instead.  A  fortnight  sped  glibly  along,  when 
a  knowing  deacon,  one  of  the  School  Committee, 
walked  in  and  told  Mr.  Thoreau  that  he  must  flog 
and  use  the  ferule,  or  the  school  would  spoil.  So 
he  did,  by  feruling  six  of  his  pupils  after  school, 
one  of  whom  was  the  maid-servant  in  his  own 
house.  But  it  did  not  suit  well  with  his  con 
science,  and  he  reported  to  the  committee  that 
he  should  no  longer  keep  their  school,  as  they 
interfered  with  his  arrangements ;  and  they  could 
keep  it. 

A   moment  may  be  spent   on   a  few   traits   of 


MANNERS  AND  READING.  25 

Thoreau,  of  a  personal  kind.  In  height,  he  was 
about  the  average ;  in  his  build,  spare,  with  limbs 
that  were  rather  longer  than  usual,  or  of  which  he 
made  a  longer  use.  His  face,  once  seen,  could  not 
be  forgotten.  The  features  were  quite  marked: 
the  nose  aquiline  or  very  Roman,  like  one  of  the 
portraits  of  Caesar  (more  like  a  beak,  as  was  said)  ; 
large,  overhanging  brows  above  the  deepest  set 
blue  eyes  that  could  be  seen,  in  certain  lights,  and 
in  others  gray,  —  eyes  expressive  of  all  shades  of 
feeling,  but  never  weak  or  near-sighted ;  the  fore 
head  not  unusually  broad  or  high,  full  of  con 
centrated  energy  and  purpose ;  the  mouth  with 
prominent  lips,  pursed  up  with  meaning  and  thought 
when  silent,  and  giving  out  when  open  a  stream 
of  the  most  varied  and  unusual  and  instructive 
sayings.  His  hair  was  a  dark  brown,  exceedingly 
abundant,  fine  and  soft ;  and  for  several  years  he 
wore  a  comely  beard.  His  whole  figure  had  an 
active  earnestness,  as  if  he  had  no  moment  to 
waste.  The  clenched  hand  betokened  purpose. 
In  walking,  he  made  a  short  cut  if  he  could,  and 
when  sitting  in  the  shade  or  by  the  wall- side 
seemed  merely  the  clearer  to  look  forward  into  the 
next  piece  of  activity.  Even  in  the  boat  he  had  a 
wary,  transitory  air,  his  eyes  on  the  outlook,  —  per 
haps  there  might  be  ducks,  or  the  Blondin  turtle, 
or  an  otter,  or  sparrow. 

2 


26  THOREAU. 

Thoreau  was  a-  plain  man  in  his  features  and 
dress,  one  who  could  not  be  mistaken.  This  kind 
of  plainness  is  not  out  of  keeping  with  beauty. 
He  sometimes  went  as  far  as  homeliness,  which 
again,  even  if  there  be  a  prejudice  against  it,  shines 
out  at  times  beyond  a  vulgar  sense.  Thus,  he 
alludes  to  those  who  pass  the  night  on  the  steamer's 
deck,  and  see  the  mountains  in  moonlight;  and  he 
did  this  himself  once  on  the  Hudson  at  the  prow, 
when,  after  a  uhem"  or  two,  the  passenger  who 
stood  next  inquired  in  good  faith :  "  Gome,  now, 
can't  ye  lend  me  a  chaw  o'  baccy  ?  "  He  looked 
like  a  shipmate.  It  was  on  another  Albany  steam 
boat  that  he  walked  the  deck  hungrily  among  the 
fine  gentlemen  and  ladies,  eating,  upon  a  half-loaf 
of  bread,  his  dinner  for  the  day,  and  very  late.  A 
plain  man  could  do  this  heartily :  an  ornamental, 
scented  thing  looks  affected.  That  was  before  the 
pedestrian  disease.  And  once,  as  he  came  late  into 
a  town  devoid  of  a  tavern,  on  going  to  the  best- 
looking  house  in  the  place  for  a  bed,  he  got  one  in 
the  entry,  within  range  of  the  family,  his  speech 
and  manners  being  those  of  polite  society ;  but  in 
some  of  our  retired  towns  there  are  traditions  of 
lodgers  who  arise  before  light  and  depart  with  the 
feather  bed,  or  the  origin  of  feathers  in  the  hen 
coop.  Once  walking  in  old  Dunstable,  he  much 
desired  the  town  history  by  C.  J.  Fox ;  and,  knock- 


MANNEES  AND  READING.  27 

ing  as  usual  at  the  best  house,  went  in  and  asked 
a  young  lady  who  made  her  appearance  whether 
she  had  the  book  in  question :  she  had,  —  it 
was  produced.  After  consulting  it  somewhat, 
Thoreau  in  his  sincere  way  inquired  very  modestly 
whether  she  "  would  not  sell  it  to  him."  I  think 
the  plan  surprised  her,  and  have  heard  that  she 
smiled ;  but  he  produced  his  wallet,  gave  her  the 
pistareen,  and  went  his  way  rejoicing  with  the 
book. 

He  did  his  stint  of  walking  on  Cape  Cod, 
where  a  stranger  attracts  a  partial  share  of  criti 
cism,  and  "  looked  despairingly  at  the  sandy  village 
whose  street  he  must  run  the  gauntlet  of;  there 
only  by  sufferance,  and  feeling  as  strange  as  if  he 
were  in  a  town  in  China."  One  of  the  old  Cod 
could  not  believe  that  Thoreau  was  not  a  ped- 
ler ;  but  said,  after  explanations  failed,  "  Well, 
it  makes  no  odds  what  it  is  you  carry,  so  long  as 
you  carry  truth  along  with  you."  One  of  those 
idiots  who  may  be  found  in  some  of  the  houses, 
grim  and  silent,  one"  night  mumbled  he  would  get 
his  gun  "  and  shoot  that  damned  pedler."  And, 
indeed,  he  might  have  followed  in  the  wake  of  a 
spectacle  pedler  who  started  from  the  inn  of  Meg 
Dods  in  Wellfleet,  the  same  morning,  both  of  them 
looking  after  and  selling  spectacles.  He  once 
appeared  in  a  mist,  in  a  remote  part  of  the  Cape, 


28  THOREAU. 

with  a  bird  tied  to  the  top  of  his  umbrella,  which 
he  shouldered  like  a  gun :  the  inhabitants  of  the 
cottage,  one  of  whom  was  a  man  with  a  sore  leg, 
set  the  traveller  down  for  a  "  crazy  fellow."  At 
Orleans  he  was  comforted  by  two  Italian  organ- 
boys  who  had  ground  their  harmonies  from  Prov- 
incetown,  for  two  score  miles  in  the  sand,  fresh 
and  gay. 

He  once  stopped  at  a  hedge-tavern  where  a 
large  white  bull-dog  was  kept  in  the  entry:  on 
asking  the  bar-tender  what  Cerberus  would  do  to  an 
early  riser,  he  replied,  "Do?  —  why,  he  would 
tear  out  the  substance  of  your  pantaloons."  This 
was  a  good  notice  not  to  quit  the  premises  with 
out  meeting  the  rent.  Whatever  was  suitable  he 
did:  as  lecturing  in  the  basement  of  an  Ortho 
dox  church  in  Amherst,  when  he  hoped  facetiously 
he  "  contributed  something  to  upheave  and  demol 
ish  the  structure."  He  lectured  in  a  Boston  read 
ing-room,  the  subscribers  snuffing  their  chloroform 
of  journals,  not  awoke  by  the  lecture.  A  simple 
person  can  thus  find  easy  paths. 

In  the  course  of  his  travels,  he  sometimes  met 
with  a  character  that  inspired  him  to  describe  it. 
He  drew  a  Flemish  sketch  of  a  citizen  of  New 
York. 

"  Getting  into  Patchogue  late  one,  night,  there 
was  a  drunken  Dutchman  on  board,  whose  wit 


MANNERS  AND  READING.  29 

reminded  me  of  Shakespeare.  When  we  came  to 
leave  the  beach  our  boat  was  aground,  and  we 
were  detained  waiting  for  the  tide.  In  the  mean 
while,  two  of  the  fishermen  took  an  extra  dram  at 
the  Beach  House.  Then  they  stretched  them 
selves  on  the  seaweed  by  the  shore  in  the  sun,  to 
sleep  off  the  effects  of  their  debauch.  One  was 
an  inconceivably  broad-faced  young  Dutchman, 
but  oh  !  of  such  a  peculiar  breadth  and  heavy  look 
I  should  not  know  whether  to  call  it  more  ridicu 
lous  or  sublime.  You  would  say  that  he  had 
humbled  himself  so  much  that  he  was  beginning  to 
be  exalted.  An  indescribable  Mynheerish  stupidity. 
I  was  less  disgusted  by  their  filthiness  and  vulgar 
ity,  because  I  was  compelled  to  look  on  them  as 
animals,  as  swine  in  their  stye.  For  the  whole 
voyage  they  lay  flat  on  their  backs  in  the  bottom 
of  the  boat  in  the  bilge-water,  and  wet  with  each 
bailing,  half-insensible  and  wallowing  in  their  filth. 
But  ever  and  anon,  when  aroused  by  the  rude 
kicks  of  the  skipper,  the  Dutchman,  who  never 
lost  his  wits  nor  equanimity,  though  snoring  and 
rolling  in  the  reek  produced  by  his  debauch,  blurted 
forth  some  happy  repartee  like  an  illuminated 
swine.  It  was  the  earthliest,  slimiest  wit  I  ever 
heard.  The  countenance  was  one  of  a  million. 
It  was  unmistakable  Dutch.  In  the  midst  of  a 
million  faces  of  other  races  it  could  not  be  mis- 


30  TNOREAU. 

taken.  It  told  of  Amsterdam.  I  kept  racking 
my  brains  to  conceive  how  he  had  been  born  in 
America,  how  lonely  he  must  feel,  what  he  did  for 
fellowship.  When  we  were  groping  up  the  narrow 
creek  of  Patchogue  at  ten  o'clock  at  night,  keep 
ing  our  boat  now  from  this  bank,  now  from  that, 
with  a  pole,  the  two  inebriates  roused  themselves 
betimes.  For  in  spite  of  their  low  estate  they 
seemed  to  have  all  their  wits  as  much  about  them 
as  ever,  ay,  and  all  the  self-respect  they  ever  had. 
And  the  Dutchman  gave  wise  directions  to  the 
steerer,  which  were  not  heeded  (told  where  eels 
were  plenty  in  the  dark,  &c.).  At  last  he  sud 
denly  stepped  on  to  another  boat  which  was 
moored  to  the  shore,  with  a  divine  ease  and  sure- 
ness,  saying,  '  Well,  good-night,  take  care  of  your 
selves,  I  can't  be  with  you  any  longer.'  He  was 
one  of  the  few  remarkable  men  I  have  met.  I 
have  been  inspired  by  one  or  two  men  in  their 
cups.  There  was  really  a  divinity  stirred  within 
them,  so  that  in  their  case  I  have  reverenced  the 
drunken,  as  savages  the  insane  man.  So  stupid 
that  he  could  never  be  intoxicated ;  when  I  said, 
4  You  have  had  a  hard  time  of  it  to-day,'  he 
answered  with .  indescribable  good-humor  out  of 
the  very  midst  of  his  debauch,  with  watery  eyes, 
'  It  doesn't  happen  every  day.'  It  was  happening 
then." 


MANNERS  AND  BEADING.  31 

With  these  plain  ways,  no  person  was  usually 
easier  misapplied  by  the  cultivated  class  than 
Thoreau.  Some  of  those  afflicted  about  him  have 
started  with  the  falsetto  of  humming  a  void  esti 
mate  on  his  life,  his  manners,  sentiments,  and  all 
that  in  him  was.  His  two  books,  "  Walden  "  and 
the  "  Week,"  are  so  excellent  and  generally  read, 
that  a  commendation  of  their  easy,  graceful,  yet 
vigorous  style  and  matter  is  superfluous.  Singu 
lar  traits  run  through  his  writing.  His  sentences 
will  bear  study ;  meanings  not  detected  at  the 
first  glance,  subtle  hints  which  the  writer  himself 
may  not  have  foreseen,  appear.  It  is  a  good  Eng 
lish  style,  growing  out  of  choice  reading  and  famil 
iarity  with  the  classic  writers,  with  the  originality 
adding  a  piquant  humor  and  unstudied  felicities  of 
diction.  He  was  not  in  the  least  degree  an  imita 
tor  of  any  writer,  old  or  new,  and  with  little  of 
his  times  or  their  opinions  in  his  books.  Never 
eager,  with  a  pensive  hesitancy  he  steps  about  his 
native  fields,  singing  the  praises  of  music  and 
spring  and  morning,  forgetful  of  himself.  No 
matter  where  he  might  have  lived,  or  in  what 
circumstance,  he  would  have  been  a  writer :  he 
was  made  for  this  by  all  his  tendencies  of  mind 
and  temperament ;  a  writer  because  a  thinker  and 
even  a  philosopher,  a  lover  of  wisdom.  No  bribe 
could  have  drawn  him  from  his  native  fields,  where 


32  TEOREAU. 

his  ambition  was  —  a  very  honorable  one  —  to  fairly 
represent  himself  in  his  works,  accomplishing  as 
perfectly  as  lay  in  his  power  what  he  conceived  his 
business.  More  society  would  have  impaired  his 
designs ;  and  a  story  from  a  fisher  or  hunter  was 
better  to  him  than  an  evening  of  triviality  in  shining 
parlors  where  he  was  misunderstood.  His  eye  and 
ear  and  hand  fitted  in  with  the  special  task  he 
undertook,  —  certainly  as  manifest  a  destiny  as  any 
man's  ever  was. 

The  best  test  of '  the  worth  of  character,  — 
whether  the  person  lived  a  contented,  joyous  life, 
filled  his  hours  agreeably,  was  useful  in  his  way, 
and  on  the  whole  achieved  his  purposes,  —  this  he 
possessed.  Xh-e  excellence  of  his  books  and  style 
is  identical  with  the  excellence  of  his  private  life. 
He  wished  to  write  living  books  that  spoke  of 
out-of-door  things,  as  if  written  by  an  out-of-door 
man;  and  thinks  his  "Week"  had  that  hypcethral 
character  he  hoped  for.  In  this  he  was  an  artist. 
The  impression  of  the  "Week"  and  "Walden" 
is  single,  as  of  a  living  product ;  a  perfectly  jointed 
building,  yet  no  more  composite  productions  could 
be  cited.  The  same  applies  to  the  lectures  on 
"Wild  Apples"  or  "Autumnal  Tints,"  which 
possess  this  unity  of  treatment ;  yet  the  materials 
were  drawn  from  the  utmost  variety  of  resources, 
observations  made  years  apart,  so  skilfully  woven 


MANNERS  AND   READING.  33 

as  to  appear  a  seamless  garment  of  thought.  This 
constructive,  combining  talent  belongs  with  the 
adaptedness  to  the  pursuit.  Other  gifts  were  sub 
sidiary  to  his  literary  gift.  He  observed  nature  ; 
but  who  would  have  known  or  heard  of  that 
except  through  his  literary  effort  ?  He  observed 
nature,  yet  not  for  the  sake  of  nature,  but  of  man  ; 
and  says,  "If  it  is  possible  to  conceive  of  an  event 
outside  to  humanity,  it  is  not  of  the  slightest 
importance,  though  it  were  the  explosion  of  the 
planet." 

Success  is  his  rule.  He  had  practised  a  variety 
of  arts  with  many  tools.  Both  he  and  his  father 
were  ingenious  persons  (the  latter  a  pencil-maker) 
and  fond  of  experimenting.  To  show  the  excel 
lence  of  their  work,  they  resolved  to  make  as  good 
a  pencil  out  of  paste  as  those  sawed  from  black 
lead  in  London.  The  result  was  accomplished  and 
the  certificate  obtained,  Thoreau  himself  claim 
ing  a  good  share  of  the  success,  as  he  found  the 
means  to  cut  the  plates.  After  his  father's  death 
he  carried  on  the  pencil  and  plumbago  business ; 
had  his  own  mill,  and  used  the  same  punctuality 
and  prudence  in  these  affairs  as  ever  distinguished 
him. 

In  one  or  two  of  his  later  articles,  expressions 
crept  in  which  might  lead  the  reader  to  suspect 
him  of  moroseiiess,  or  that  his  old  trade  of  school- 
2*  c 


34  _  THOSE  AU. 

master  stuck  to  him.  He  rubbed  out  as  perfectly 
as  he  could  the  more  humorous  part  of  those 
articles,  originally  a  relief  to  their  sterner  features, 
and  said,  "  I  cannot  bear  the  levity  I  find."  To 
which  it  was  replied,  that  it  was  hoped  he  would 
spare  them,  even  to  the  puns ;  for  he  sometimes 
indulged.  As  when  a  farmer  drove  up  with  a 
strange  pair  of  long-tailed  ponies,  his  companion 
asked  whether  such  a  person  would  not  carry  a 
Colt's  revolver  to  protect  him  in  the  solitude, 
Thoreau  replied  that  "  he  did  not  know  about  that, 
but  he  saw  he  had  a  pair  of  revolving  colts  before 
him."  A  lady  once  asked  whether  he  ever  laughed, 
—  and  she  was  well  acquainted  with  him  halfway, 
but  did  not  see  him,  unless  as  a  visitor.  He  never 
became  versed  in  making  formal  visits,  and  had 
not  much  success  with  first  acquaintance.  As  to 
his  laughing,  no  one  did  that  more  or  better.  One 
was  surprised  to  see  him  dance,  —  he  had  been  well 
taught,  and  was  a  vigorous  dancer ;  and  any  one 
who  ever  heard  him  sing  "  Tom  Bowlin"  will 
agree  that,  in  tune  and  in  tone,  he  answered,  and 
went  far  beyond,  all  expectation.  His  favorite  songs 
were  Mrs.  Hemans's  "  Pilgrim  Fathers,"  Moore's 
"  Evening  Bells "  and  "  Canadian  Boat  Song," 
and  Wolfe's  "  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,"  —  pre 
cisely  the  most  tender  and  popular  songs.  And  oh, 
how  sweetly  he  played  upon  his  flute  !  Not  unfre- 


MANNERS  AND    READING.  35 

quently  he  sang  that  brave  catch  of  Izaak  Wal 
ton's,  — 

"  In  the  morning  when  we  rise, 
Take  a  cup  to  wash  our  eyes," 

his  cup  of  cold  water.  The  Indians  loved  to 
drink  at  running  brooks  which  were  warm,  but  he 
loved  ice-cold  water.  Summer  or  winter  he  drank 
very  little,  and  would  sometimes  try  to  recollect 
when  he  drank  last. 

Before  he  set  out  on  a  foot  journey,  he  collected 
every  information  as  to  the  routes  and  the  place  to 
which  he  was  going,  through  the  maps  and  guide 
books.  For  this  State  he  had  the  large  State  map 
divided  in  portions  convenient,  and  carried  in  a 
cover  such  parts  as  he  wanted:  he  deemed  this 
map,  for  his  purposes,  excellent.  Once  he  made 
for  himself  a  knapsack,  with  partitions  for  his  books 
and  papers,  —  india-rubber  cloth,  strong  and  large 
and  spaced,  the  common  knapsack&being  unspaced. 
The  partitions  were  made  of  stout  book-paper. 
His  route  being  known,  he  made  a  list  of  all  he 
should  carry,  —  the  sewing  materials  never  forgot 
ten  (as  he  was  a  vigorous  walker,  and  did  not  stick 
at  a  hedge  more  than  an  English  racer),  the  pounds 
of  bread,  the  sugar,  salt,  and  tea  carefully  decided 
on.  After  trying  the  merit  of  cocoa,  coffee,  water, 
and  the  like,  tea  was  put  down  as  the  felicity  of 
a  walking  "  travail,"  —  tea  plenty,  strong,  with 


36  THOREAU. 

enough  sugar,  made  in  a  tin  pint  cup ;  when  it 
may  be  said  the  walker  will  be  refreshed  and  grow 
intimate  with  tea-leaves.  With  him  the  botany 
must  go  too,  and  the  book  for  pressing  flowers  (an 
old  "  Primo  Flauto  "  of  his  father's),  and  the  guide 
book,  spy-glass,  and  measuring-tape ;  and  every 
one  who  has  carried  a  pack  up  a  mountain  knows 
how  every  fresh  ounce  tells.  He  would  run  up 
the  steepest  place  as  swiftly  as  if  he  were  on  dry 
land,  and  his  breath  never  failed.  He  commended 
every  party  to  carry  "  a  junk  of  heavy  cake  "  with 
plums  in  it,  having  found  by  long  experience  that 
after  toil  it  was  a  capital  refreshment. 

He  made  three  journeys  into  the  Maine  wilder 
ness,  two  from  Moosehead  Lake  in  canoes,  accom 
panied  by  Indians,  another  to  Katahdin  Mountain. 
These  taught  him  the  art  of  camping  out ;  and  he 
could  construct  in  a  short  time  a  convenient  camp 
sufficient  for  permanent  occupancy.  His  last  ex 
cursion  of  this  kind  was  to  Monadnock  Mountain 
in  August,  1859.  He  spent  five  nights  in  camp, 
having  built  two  huts  to  get  varied  views.  On  a 
walk  like  this  he  always  carried  his  umbrella ;  and 
on  this  Monadnock  trip,  when  about  one  mile  from 
the  station,  a  torrent  of  rain  came  down,  the  day 
being  previously  fine,  when  without  his  well-used 
aid  his  books,  blankets,  maps,  and  provisions 
would  all  have  been  spoiled,  or  the  morning  lost 


MANNERS  AND  HEADING.  37 

by  delay.  On  the  mountain,  the  first  plateau  being 
reached  perhaps  at  about  three,  there  being  a  thick, 
rather  soaking  fog,  the  first  object  was  to  camp  and 
make  tea.  Flowers,  birds,  lichens,  and  the  rocks 
were  carefully  examined,  all  parts  of  the  mountain 
1  iag  visited;  and  as  accurate  a  map  as  could  be 
made  by  pocket-compass  carefully  sketched  and 
drawn  out,  in  the  five  days  spent  there,  with  notes 
of  the  striking  aerial  phenomena,  incidents  of  travel 
and  natural  history. 

Doubtless  he  directed  his  work  with  the  view  to 
writing  on  this  and  other  mountains,  and  his  collec 
tions  were  of  course  in  his  mind.  Yet  all  this  was 
incidental  to  the  excursion  itself,  the  other  things 
collateral.  The  capital  in  use,  the  opportunity  of 
the  wild,  free  life,  the  open  air,  the  new  and  strange 
sounds  by  night  and  day,  the  odd  and  bewildering 
rocks  among  which  a  person  can  be  lost  within  a 
rod  of  camp ;  the  strange  cries  of  visitors  to  the 
summit ;  the  great  valley  over  to  Wachusett  with 
its  thunder-storms  and  battles  in  the  cloud,  to  look 
at,  not  fear;  the  farmers'  back-yards  in  Jaffrey, 
where  the  family  cotton  can  be  seen  bleaching  on 
the  grass,  but  no  trace  of  the  pygmy  family ;  the 
rip  of  night-hawks  after  twilight  putting  up  dor- 
bugs,  and  the  dry,  soft  air  all  the  night ;  the  lack 
of  dew  in  the  morning ;  the  want  of  water,  a  pint 
being  a  good  deal,  —  these  and  similar  things 


38  THOREAU. 

make  up  some  part  of  such  an  excursion.  It  is 
all  different  from  any  thing,  and  would  be  so  if 
you  went  a  hundred  times.  The  fatigue,  the  blaz 
ing  sun,  the  face  getting  broiled ;  the  pint  cup 
never  scoured ;  shaving  unutterable  ;  your  stock 
ings  dreary,  having  taken  to  peat, — not  all  the 
books  in  the  world,  as  Sancho  says,  could  contain 
the  adventures  of  a  week  in  camping. 

A  friendly  coincidence  happened  on  his  last 
excursion,  July,  1858,  to  the  White  Mountains. 
Two  of  his  friends  thought  they  might  chance 
upon  him  there  ;  and,  though  he  dreamed  little  of 
seeing  them,  he  left  a  note  at  the  Mountain  House 
which  said  where  he  was  going,  and  told  them  if 
they  looked  "they  would  see  the  smoke  of  his 
fire."  This  came  to  be  true,  the  brush  taking 
the  flame,  and  a  smoke  rising  to  be  seen  over 
all  the  valley.  Meantime,  Thoreau,  in  leaping 
from  one  mossy  rock  to  another  (after  nearly  slid 
ing  down  the  snow-crust  on  the  side  of  Tucker- 
man's  Ravine,  and  saved  by  digging  his  nails  into 
the  snow),  had  fallen  and  severely  sprained  his 
foot.  Before  this,  he  had  found  the  Arnica  mollis, 
a  plant  famous  for  its  healing  properties ;  but  he 
preferred  the  ice-cold  water  of  the  mountain 
stream,  into  which  he  boldly  plunged  his  tortured 
limb  to  reduce  the  swelling,  had  the  tent  spread, 
and  then,  the  rain  beginning  to  come  down,  so 


MANNERS  AND  HEADING.  39 

came  his  two  friends  down  the  mountain  as  well, 
their  outer  integuments  decimated  with  their  tramp 
in  the  scrub.  They  had  seen  the  smoke  ;  and  here 
they  were  in  his  little  tent  made  for  two,  the  rain 
falling  all  the  while,  and  five  full-grown  men  to  be 
packed  in  for  five  days  and  nights,  Thoreau  unable 
to  move  on,  but  he  sat  and  entertained  them  heart 
ily.  He  admired  the  rose-colored  linngeas  lining 
the  side  of  the  narrow  horse-track  through  the  fir- 
scrub,  and  the  leopard-spotted  land  below  the 
mountains.  He  had  seen  the  pines  in  Fitzwilliam 
in  a  primeval  wood-lot,  and  "  their  singular  beauty 
made  such  an  impression  that  I  was  forced  to  turn 
aside  and  contemplate  them.  They  were  so  round 
and  perpendicular  that  my  eyes  slid  off."  The 
rose-breasted  grosbeaks  sang  in  a  wonderful  strain 
on  Mount  Lafayette.  He  ascended  such  hills  as 
Monadnock  or  Saddle-back  Mountains  by  his  own 
path,  and  would^  lay  down  his  map  on  the  summit 
and  draw  a  line  to  the  point  he  proposed  to  visit 
below,  perhaps  forty  miles  away  in  the  landscape, 
and  set  off  bravely  to  make  "  the  short-cut."  The 
lowland  people  wondered  to  see  him  scaling  the 
heights  as  if  he  had  lost  his  way,  or  at  his  "  jump 
ing  over  their  cow-yard  fences,"  asking  if  he  had 
fallen  from  the  clouds. 

Allusion  has  been  made  to  his  faithful  reading  of 
English  poetry  at  college.     That  he  was  familiar 


40  THOBEAU. 

with  the  classics  and  kept  up  the  acquaintance,  is 
shown  by  his  translations  from  Persius,  ^Eschylus, 
Homer,  Cato,  Aristotle,  Pindar,  Anacreon,  Pliny, 
and  other  old  writers.  His  "  Prometheus  Bound  " 
was  reprinted  and  used  as  a  "  pony  "  at  Harvard 
College.  Homer  and  Virgil  were  his  favorites, 
like  the  world's.  In  English,  Chaucer,  Milton, 
Ossian,  the  Robin  Hood  Ballads;  the  "  Lycidas  " 
never  out  of  his  mind,  for  he  had  the  habit,  more 
than  usual  among  scholars,  of  thinking  in  the  lan 
guage  of  another,  in  an  unstudied  way.  Of  his 
favorites,  he  has  written  a  pleasant  account  in  his 
"  Week."  But  he  used  these  and  all  literature  as 
aids,  and  did  not  stop  in  a  book ;  rarely  or  never 
read  them  over.  His  reading  was  done  with  a  pen 
in  his  hand :  he  made  what  he  calls  "  Fact-books," 
—  citations  which  concerned  his  studies.  He  had 
no  favorite  among  modern  writers  save  Carlyle. 
Stories,  novels  (excepting  the  History  of  Froissart 
and  the  grand  old  Pelion  on  Ossa  of  the  Hindoo 
Mythology),  he  did  not  read.  His  East  Indian 
studies  never  went  deep,  technically:  into  the 
philological  discussion  as  to  whether  ab,  ab,  is 
Sanscrit,  or  "  what  is  Om  ?  "  he  entered  not.  But 
no  one  relished  the  Bhagyat^  Geeta  better,  or  the 
good  sentences  from  the  Vishnu  Purana.  He 
loved  the  Laws  of  Menu,  the  Vishnu  Sarma, 
Saadi,  and  similar  books.  After  he  had  ceased  to 


MANNERS  AND  READING.  41 

read  these  works,  he  received  a  collection  of  them 
as  a  present,  from  England.  Plato  and  Montaigne 
and  Goethe  were  all  too  slow  for  him :  the  hobbies 
he  rode  dealt  with  realities,  not  shadows,  and  he 
philosophized  ab  initio.  Metaphjsics.jsas.liiS-aver- 
sion.  He  believed  and  lived  in  his  senses  loftily. 
Speculations  on  the  special  faculties  of  the  mind,  or 
whether  the  Not  Me  comes  out  of  the  "I,"  or  the 
All  out  of  the  infinite  Nothing,  he  could  not  enter 
tain.  Like  the  Queen  of  Prussia,  he  had  heard  of 
Us  infiniments  pet-its.  In  his  way,  he  was  a  great 
reader  and  eagerly  perused  books  of  adventure, 
travel,  or  fact ;  and  never  could  frame  a  dearer 
wish  than  spending  the  winter  at  the  North  pole : 
"  could  eat  a  fried  rat  with  a  relish,"  if  oppor 
tunity  commanded. 

The  "  Week  "  is  a  mine  of  quotations  from  good 
authors,  the  proof  of  careful  reading  and  right 
selection.  Such  knotty  writers  as  _Quarles  and 
Donne  here  find  a  place  in  lines  as  fresh  and  sen 
tentious  as  the  fleetest  wits.  What  so  subtle  as 
these  lines  from  Quarles,  —  his  "  Divine  Fancies  "  9 

"  He  that  wants  faith,  and  apprehends  a  grief, 
Because  he  wants  it,  hath  a  true  holief ; 
And  he  that  grieves  because  his  grief  's  so  small, 
Has  a  true  grief,  and  the  best  Faith  of  all." 

"  The  laws  of  Nature  break  the  rules  of  art," 


42  THOREAU. 

is  from  the  same ;   and  the  Emblems,  Book  IV., 
II. ,  give  the  lines :  — 

"  I  asked  the  schoolman,  his  advice  was  free, 
But  scored  me  out  too  intricate  a  way." 

Also  his  favorites,  — 

"  Be  wisely  worldly,  but  not  worldly  wise." 

"The  ill  that  'a  wisely  feared  is  half  withstood." 

"  An  unrequested  star  did  gently  slide 

Before  the  wise  men  to  a  greater  light." 
"  Lord,  if  my  cards  be  bad,  yet  grant  me  skill 
To  play  them  wisely  and  make  the  best  of  ill." 

The  famous  Dean  of  St.  Paul's,  the  learned  Dr. 
Donne,  was  not  less  his  favorite.  He  might  have 
quoted,  as  an  example  of  his  own  prevailing  mag 
nanimity,  the  stanza,  — 

"For  me  (if  there  be  such  a  thing  as  I), 

Fortune  (if  there  be  such  a  thing  as  she), 
Spies  that  I  bear  so  well  her  tyranny, 

That  she  thinks  nothing  else  so  fit  for  me." 

He  had  put  this  wise  verse  in  his  note-book  as 
early  as  1837,  from  the  same :  — 

"  Oh,  how  feeble  is  man's  power, 

That  if  good  Fortune  fall, 
Cannot  add  another  hour, 

Nor  a  lost  hour  recall ; 
But  come  bad  chance, 

And  we  join  to  't  our  strength, 

And  we  teaoh  it  art  and  length, 
Itself  o'er  us  t'  advance." 

"  Only  he  who  knows 
Himself  knows  more." 


MANNERS  AND  READING.  43 

The  "  Musophilus  [of  Samuel  Daniel]  ;  contain 
ing  a  general  defence  of  learning,  to  the  Right 
worthy  and  Judicious  Favorer  of  Virtue,  Mr. 
Fulke  Grevill,"  was  a  special  gift  to  him  from  the 
age  of  Elizabeth.  Daniel  has  other  good  backers ; 
but  they  have  never  found  the  best  lines,  as  it  was 
Thoreau's  enviable  privilege  to  do.  This  precious 
stanza  is  from  the  poem  above-named :  — 

"  Men  find  that  action  is  another  thing 

Than  what  they  in  discoursing  papers  read ; 
The  world's  affairs  require  in  managing 
More  arts  than  those  wherein  you  clerks  proceed." 

And  this,  too,  a  verse  very  often  repeated  by 
him,  is  from  Daniel's  "  Epistle  to  the  Lady  Mar 
garet,  Countess  of  Cumberland  :  "  — 

"  Unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man." 

So  Daniel  has  his  say  on  learning  in  the  verse, — 

"  How  many  thousand  never  heard  the  name 
Of  Sidney  or  of  Spenser,  or  their  books  ? 
And  yet  brave  fellows,  and  presume  of  fame, 

And  seem  to  bear  down  all  the  world  with  looks." 

Charles  Cotton,  the  friend  of  Izaak  Walton, 
gave  him  a  motto  for  morning:  — 

"  And  round  about  good  morrows  fly, 
As  if  day  taught  humanity." 

And   one   for   evening,  which   Virgil,  or  Turner 

t- 


44  T1IOREAU. 

the  English  painter,  would  have  appreciated  {Et 
jam  summa  procul,  etc.)  :  — 

"A  very  little,  little  flock 
Shades  thrice  the  ground  that  it  would  stock, 
Whilst  the  small  stripling  following  them 
Appears  a  mighty  Polypheme." 

Cotton  also  afforded  the  fine  definition  of  "  Con 
tentment:  "  — 

"  Thou  bravest  soul's  terrestrial  paradise." 

And  that  great  lament  for  the  death  of  Thomas, 
Earl  of  Ossory :  — 

"  The  English  infantry  are  orphans  now." 

He  refers  to  Michael  Drayton's  Elegy,  "  To  my 
dearly  beloved  friend,  Henry  Reynolds,  of  Poets 
and  Poesy,"  where  he  says :  — 

"  Next  Marlowe  bathed  in  the  Thespian  springs 
Had  in  him  those  brave  translunary  things 
That  your  first  poets  had  :  his  raptures  were 
All  air  and  fire,  which  made  his  verses  clear ; 
For  that  fine  madness  still  he  did  retain 
Which  rightly  should  possess  a  poet's  brain." 

So  Drummond's  sonnet,  "  Icarus,"  pleased  him 
with  its  stirring  line  :  — 

"For  still  the  shore  my  brave  attempt  resounds." 

Spenser's  "  Ruines  of  Rome  "  gave  him  those 
lines,  — 


MANNERS  AND  BEADING.  45 

"  Rome  living  was  the  world's  sole  ornament ; 
And  dead,  is  now  the  world's  sole  monument.  .  .  . 
With  her  own  weight  down  pressed  now  she  lies, 
And  by  her  heaps  her  hugeness  testifies." 

Ever  alive  to  distinction,  he  admired  that  verse 
of  Habington's, — 

"  Let  us  set  so  just 

A  rate  on  Knowledge,  that  the  world  may  trust 
The  poet's  sentence,  and  not  still  aver 
Each  art  is  to  itself  a  flatterer." 

While  the  poem  of  the  same  author,  with  that 
nonpareil  title,  "  Nox  nocti  indicat  scientiam"  drew 
the  Esquimaux  race,  — 

"Some  nation  yet  shut  in 
With  hills  of  ice." 

As  for  Giles  and  Phineas  Fletcher,  he  exhumed 
from  them  certain  of  the  best  lines  in  his  "  Week," 
such  as  the  passage  from  the  former's  "  Christ's 
Victory  and  Triumph,"  beginning, — 

"  How  may  a  worm  that  crawls  along  the  dust 
Clamber  the  azure  mountains,  thrown  so  high." 

As  well  as  this :  — 

"  And  now  the  taller  sons  whom  Titan  warms, 
Of  unshorn  mountains  blown  with  easy  winds, 
Dandle  the  morning's  childhood  in  their  arms ; 
And,  if  they  chanced  to  slip  the  prouder  pines, 
The  under  corylets  did  catch  their  shines, 
To  gild  their  leaves." 

The    two   splendid   stanzas   from  the   "  Purple 


46  THOREAU. 

Island "  of  Phineas  Fletcher  are  unsurpassed  in 
Elizabethan  or  later  verse,  beginning  with,  — 

"  By  them  went  Fido,  marshal  of  the  field." 

George  Peele's  mighty  lines  he  knew,  — 

"  When  Fame's  great  double-doors  fall  to  and  shut ; " 

and  John  Birkenhead's  tribute  to  Beaumont,  the 
dramatist,  — 

"  Thy  ocean  fancy  knew  nor  banks  nor  dams, 
We  ebb  down  dry  to  pebble  anagrams." 


NATURE.  47 


CHAPTER  III. 

NATURE. 

"  For  this  present,  hard 
Is  the  fortune  of  the  bard 
Born  out  of  time."  —  EMERSON. 

T  TIS  habit  was  to  go  abroad  a  portion  of  each 
day  to  fields  or  woods,  or  the  river :  "  I  go 
out  to  see  what  I  have  caught  in  my  traps,  which  I 
set  for  facts."  He  looked  to  fabricate  an  epitome 
of  creation,  and  give  us  a  homoeopathy  of  nature. 
All  must  get  included.  "  No  fruit  grows  in  vain. 
The  red  squirrel  harvests  the  fruit  of  the  pitch- 
pine."  He  wanted  names.  "  I  never  felt  easy  till 
I  got  the  .name  for  the  Andropogon  scoparius  (a 
grass) :  I  was  not  acquainted  with  my  beautiful 
neighbor,  but  since  I  knew  it  was  the  Andropogon 
I  have  felt  more  at  home  in  my  native  fields."  He 
had  no  trace  of  that  want  of  memory  which 
infests  amiable  beings.  He  loved  the  world  and 
could  not  pass  a  berry,  nor  fail  to  ask  his  question. 
I  fear  —  leading.  Men  who  had  seen  the  partridge 
drum,  caught  the  largest  pickerel,  and  eaten  the 
most  swamp  apples,  did  him  service ;  and  he  long 
frequented  one  who,  if  not  a  sinner,  was  no  saint, 


48  THOREAU. 

whose  destiny  carried  him  for  ever  to  field  or 
stream,  —  not  too  bad  for  Nature.  "Surely  he  is 
tenacious  of  life  ;  hard  to  scale."  The  Farmer  who 
could  find  him  a  hawk's  egg  or  give  him  a  fisher's 
foot,  he  would  wear  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  whether 
called  Jacob  or  not.  He  admired  our  toil-crucified\x/ 
farmers,  conditioned  like  granite  and  pine,  slow 
and  silent  as  the  Seasons,  —  "  like  the  sweetness  of 
a  nut,  like  the  toughness  of  hickory.  He,  too,  is 
a  redeemer  for  me.  How  superior  actually  to  the 
faith  he  professes !  He  is  not  an  office-seeker. 
What  an  institution,  what  a  revelation  is  a  man ! 
We  want  foolishly  to  think  the  creed  a  man  pro 
fesses  a  more  significant  fact  than  the  man  he  is. 
It  matters  not  how  hard  the  conditions  seemed, 
how  mean  the  world,  for  a  man  is  a  prevalent 
force  and  a  new  law  himself.  He  is  a  system 
whose  law  is  to  be  observed.  The  old  farmer  still 
condescends  to  countenance  this  nature  and  order 
of  things.  It  is  a  great  encouragement  that  an 
honest  man  makes  this  world  his  abode.  He  rides 
on  the  sled  drawn  by  oxen,  world-wise,  yet  com 
paratively  so  young  as  if  he  had  not  seen  scores 
of  winters.  The  farmer  spoke  to  me,  I  can  swear, 
clear,  cold,  moderate  as  the  snow  where  he  treads. 
Yet  what  a  faint  impression  that  encounter  may 
make  on  me  after  all.  Moderate,  natural,  true,  as 
if  he  were  made  of  stone,  wood,  snow.  I  thus  meet 


NATURE.  49 

in  this  universe  kindred  of  mine  composed  of  these 
elements.  I  see  men  like  frogs :  their  peeping  I 
partially  understand." 

For  cities,  he  felt  like  the  camels  and  Arab 
camel-drivers  who  accompany  caravans  across  the 
desert.  The  books  and  Dr.  Harris,  the  college 
librarian,  he  saw  in  Cambridge,  and  in  Boston  the 
books  and  the  end  of  Long  Wharf,  where  he  went 
to  snuff  the  sea.  The  rest,  as  he  phrased  it,  "  was 
barrels."  In  books,  he  found  matters  that  tran 
scend  legislatures:  "One  wise  sentence  is  worth 
the  State  of  Massachusetts  many  times  over."  I 
never  heard  him  complain  that  the  plants  were  too 
many,  the  hours  too  long.  As  he  said  of  the  crow, 
"  If  he  has  voice,  I  have  ears."  .  The  flowers  are 
furnished,  and  he  can  bring  his  note-book. 

"As  if  by  secret  sight,  he  knew 
"Where,  in  far  fields,  the  orchis  grew." 

He  obeyed  the  plain  rule,  — 

"  Take  the  goods  the  gods  provide  thee," 

and  having  neither  ship  nor  magazine,  gun  or  jave 
lin,  horse  or  hound,  had  conveyed  to  him  a  prop 
erty  in  many  things  equal  to  the  height  of  all  his 
ambitioD.  What  he  did  not  covet  was  not  forced 
on  his  attention.  What  he  desired  lay  at  his  feet. 
The  breath  of  morning  skies  with  the  saffron  of 
Aurora  beautifully  dight ;  children  of  the  air  waft- 


50  THOEEAU. 

ing  the  smiles  of  spring  from  the  vexed  Bermoothes ; 
fragrant  life-everlasting  in  the  dry  pastures  ;  blue 
forget-me-nots  along  the  brook,  —  were  his:  ice 
piled  its  shaggy  enamel  for  him,  where  coral  cran 
berries  yesterday  glowed  in  the  grass  ;  and -forests 
whispered  loving  secrets  in  his  ear.  For  is  not  the 
earth  kind  ? 

"  We  are  rained  and  snowed  on  with  gems.  I 
confess  that  I  was  a  little  encouraged,  for  I  was 
beginning  to  believe  that  Nature  was  poor  and 
mean,  and  I  now  was  convinced  that  she  turned  off 
as  good  work  as  ever.  What  a  world  we  live  in  ! 
Where  are  the  jeweller's  shops  ?  There  is  nothing 
handsomer  than  a  snow-flake  and  a  dew-drop.  I 
may  say  that  the  Maker  of  the  world  exhausts  his 
skill  with  each  snow-flake  and  dew-drop  that  He 
sends  down.  We  think  that  the  one  mechanically 
coheres,  and  that  the  other  simply  flows  together 
and  falls ;  but  in  truth  they  are  the  product  of 
enthusiasm,  the  children  of  an  ecstasy,  finished 
with  the  artist's  utmost  skill." 

He  dreamed,  for  such  a  space  as  that  filled  by 
the  town  of  Concord,  he  might  construct  a  cal 
endar, —  the  out-of-door  performances  in  order; 
and  paint  a  sufficient  panorama  of  the  year,  which 
multiplied  the  image  of  a  day.  It  embraced  cold 
and  heat.  He  had  gauges  for  the  river,  constantly 
consulted ;  he  noted  the  temperatures  of  springs 


NATURE.  51 

and  ponds  ;  set  down  each,  novel  sky ;  the  flower 
ing  of  plants,  their  blossom  and  fruit ;  the  fall  of 
leaves ;  the  arrivals  and  departures  of  the  migrat 
ing  birds ;  the  habits  of  animals ;  and  made  new 
seasons.  No  hour  tolled  on  the  great  world-horo 
loge  must  be  omitted,  no  movement  of  the  second 
hand  of  this  patent  lever  that  is  so  full-jewelled. 

"  Behold  these  flowers,  let  us  be  up  with  time, 
Not  dreaming  of  three  thousand  years  ago." 

No  description  can  be  given  of  the  labor  necessary 
for  this  undertaking,  —  labor  and  time  and  perse 
verance.  He  drinks  in  the  meadow,  at  Second 
Division  Brook ;  "then  sits  awhile  to  watch  its 
yellowish  pebbles,  and  the  cress  in  it  and  the 
weeds.  The  ripples  cover  its  surface  as  a  network, 
and  are  faithfully  reflected  on  the  bottom.  In 
some  places,  the  sun  reflected  from  ripples  on  a 
flat  stone  looks  like  a  golden  comb.  The  whole 
brook  seems  as  busy  as  a  loom :  it  is  a  woof  and 
warp  of  ripples;  fairy  fingers  are  throwing  the 
shuttle  at  every  step,  and  the  long,  waving  brook 
is  the  fine  product.  The  water  is  so  wonderfully 
clear,  —  to  have  a  hut  here  and  a  foot-path  to  the 
brook.  For  roads,  I  think  that  a  poet  cannot 
tolerate  more  than  a  foot-path  through  the  field. 
That  is  wide  enough,  and  for  purposes  of  winged 
poesy  suffices.  I  would  fain  travel  by  a  foot-path 
round  the  world." 


52  THOREAU. 

So  might  he  say  in  that  mood,  yet  think  the 
wider  wood-path  was  not  bad,  as  two  could  walk 
side  by  side  in  it  in  the  ruts,  —  ay,  and  one  more 
in  the  horse-track.  He  loved  in  the  summer 
to  lay  up  a  stock  of  these  experiences  "  for  the 
winter,  as  the  squirrel,  of  nuts,  —  something  for 
conversation  in  winter  evenings.  I  love  to  think 
then  of  the  more  distant  walks  I  took  in  summer. 
Might  I  not  walk  further  till  I  hear  new  crickets, 
till  their  creak  has  acquired  some  novelty  as  if 
they  were  a  new  species  whose  habitat  I  had  dis 
covered?" 

Night  and  her  stars  were  not  neglected  friends. 
He  saw 

"  The  wandering  moon 
Riding  near  her  highest  noon," 

and  sings  in  this  strain :  — 

"  My  dear,  my  dewy  sister,  let  thy  rain  descend 
on  me.  I  not  only  love  thee,  but  I  love  the  best 
of  thee  ;  that  is  to  love  thee  rarely.  I  do  not  love 
thee  every  day,  commonly  I  love  those  who  are  less 
than  thee ;  I  love  thee  only  on  great  days.  Thy 
dewy  words  feed  me  like  the  manna  of  the  morning. 
I  am  as  much  thy  sister  as  thy  brother  ;  thou  art 
as  much  my  brother  as  my  sister.  It  is  a  portion 
of  thee  and  a  portion  of  me  which  are  of  kin. 
Thou  dost  not  have  to  woo  me.  I  do  not  have  to 
woo  thee.  O  my  sister !  O  Diana !  thy  tracks 


NATURE.  53 

are  on  the  eastern  hill.  Thou  merely  passed  that 
way.  I,  the  hunter,  saw  them  in  the  morning  dew. 
My  eyes  are  the  hounds  that  pursued  thee.  Ah, 
my  friend,  what  if  I  do  not  know  thee  ?  I  hear 
thee.  Thou  canst  speak  ;  I  cannot ;  I  fear  and  for 
get  to  answer ;  I  am  occupied  with  hearing.  I 
awoke  and  thought  of  thee,  thou  wast  present  to 
my  mind.  How  cam'st  thou  there  ?  Was  I  not 
present  to  thee  likewise  ?  " 

Thou  couldst  look  down  with  pity  on  that  mound.. 
Some  silver  beams  faintly  raining  through  the  old 
locust  boughs,  for  thy  lover,  thy  Endymion,  is 
watching  there.  He  was  abroad  with  thee  after 
the  midnight  mass  had  tolled,  and  the  consecrated 
dust  of  yesterdays  each  in  its  narrow  cell  for 
ever  laid,  which  he  lived  to  hive  in  precious  vases 
for  immortality,  —  tales  of  natural  piety,  bound 
each  to  each. 

"  Now  chiefly  is  my  natal  hour, 
And  only  now  my  prime  of  life. 
I  will  not  doubt  the  love  untold, 
Which  not  my  worth  nor  want  hath  bought, 
Which  wooed  me  young  and  wooes  me  old, 
And  to  this  evening  hath  me  brought.'* 

Thus  conversant  was  he  with  great  Nature. 
Perchance  he  reached  the  wildness  for  which  he 
longed. 

"  A  nature  which  I  cannot  put  my  foot  through, 


54  THOREAU. 

woods  where  the  wood- thrush  for  ever  sings,  where 
the  hours  are  early  morning  ones  and  the  day  is 
for  ever  improved,  where  I  might  have  a  fertile 
unknown  for  a  soil  about  me." 

Always  suggestive  (possibly  to  some  unattrac 
tive)  themes  lay  about  him  in  this  Nature.  Even 
"  along  the  wood-paths,  wines  of  all  kinds  and 
qualities,  of  noblest  vintages,  are  bottled  up  in  the 
skins  of  countless  berries,  for  the  taste  of  men  and 
animals.  To  men  they  seem  offered,  not  so  much 
for  food  as  for  sociality,  that  they  may  picnic  with 
Nature.  Diet  drinks,  cordial  wines,  we  pluck  and 
eat  in  remembrance  of  her.  It  is  a  sacrament,  a 
communion.  The  not  Forbidden  Fruits,  which  no 
Serpent  tempts  us  to  taste." 

We  will  not  forget  the  apothegm,  —  "  A  writer, 
a  man  writing,  is  the  scribe  of  all  nature ;  he  is 
the  corn  and  the  grass  and  the  atmosphere  writing," 
—  or  that  he  says,  "My  business  was  writing." 
To  this  he  neglected  no  culture  from  facts  or  men, 
or  travel  or  books,  neither  did  he  gallop  his  ideas, 
and  race  for  oblivion.  "Whatever  wit  has  been 
produced  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  will  bear  to 
be  reconsidered  and  reformed  with  phlegm.  The 
arrow  had  best  not  be  loosely  shot.  The  most 
transient  and  passing  remark  must  be  reconsidered 
by  the  writer,  made  sure  and  warranted  as  if  the 
earth  had  rested  on  its  axle  to  back  it,  and  all  the 


NATURE.  55 

natural  forces  lay  behind  it.  The  writer  must 
direct  his  sentences  as  carefully  as  the  marksman 
his  rifle,  who  shoots  sitting  and  with  a  rest,  with 
patent  sights  and  conical  balls  besides.  If  you 
foresee  that  a  part  of  your  essay  will  topple  down 
after  the  lapse  of  time,  throw  it  down  yourself." 
This  was  his  sure  and  central  fire,  —  the  impulse  to 
faithfully  account  for  himself.  "  Facts  collected 
by  a  poet  are  set  down  at  last  as  winged  seeds  of 
truth,  —  samarce,  tinged  with  his  expectation.  Oh, 
may  my  words  be  verdurous  and  sempiternal  as 
the  hills !  " 

No  labor  too  onerous,  no  material  too  costly,  if 
outlaid  on  the  right  enterprise.  Every  thing  has 
its  price.  His  working  up  the  Indians  corroborates 
this.  These  books  form  a  library  by  themselves. 
Extracts  from  reliable  authorities  from  DeBry  to 
poor  Schoolcraft,  with  the  early  plates  and  maps 
accurately  copied,  and  selections  from  travellers  the 
world  over ;  for  his  notes  embraced  all  that  bears 
on  his  "  list  of  subjects,"  —  wherever  scalps,  wam 
pum,  and  the  Great  Spirit  prevail, — in  all  uncivil 
ized  people.  Indian  customs  in  Natick  are  savage 
customs  in  Brazil,  the  Sandwich  Islands,  or  Tim- 
buctoo.  With  the  Indian  vocabularies  he  was 
familiar,  and  in  his  Maine  excursions  tested  his 
knowledge  by  all  the  words  he  could  get  from  the 
savages  in  puris  naturalibus.  Personally  these  liv- 


56  THOSE  AU. 

ing  red  men  were  not  charming ;  and  he  would 
creep  out  of  camp  at  night  to  refresh  his  olfac 
tories,  damped  with  uncivilized  perfumes,  which  it 
seems,  like  musquash  and  other  animals,  they 
enjoy.  After  the  toughest  day's  work,  when  even 
his  bones  ached,  the  Indians  would  keep  awake  till 
midnight,  talking  eternally  all  the  while.  They 
performed  valiant  feats  as  trencher-men,  "  licked 
the  platter  clean,"  and  for  all  answer  to  many  of 
his  questions  grunted  ;  which  did  not  discourage 
him,  as  he  could  grunt  himself.  Their  knowledge 
of  the  woods,  the  absolutisms  of  their  scent,  sight, 
and  appetite,  amazed  him.  He  says,  "  There  is 
always  a  slight  haze  or  mist  in  the  brow  of  the 
Indian."  He  read  and  translated  the  Jesuit  rela 
tions  of  the  first  Canadian  missions,  containing 
"  the  commodities  and  discommodities "  of  the 
Indian  life,  such  as  the  roasting  of  a  fresh  parson. 
He  read  that  romantic  book,  "  Faite  par  le  Sieur 
de  la  Borde,"  upon  the  origin,  manners,  customs, 
wars,  and  voyages  of  the  Caribs,  who  were  the 
Indians  of  the  Antilles  of  America ;  how  these 
patriots  will  sell  their  beds  in  the  morning  (their 
memories  too  short  for  night),  and  in  their  heaven, 
Ouicou,  the  Carib  beer  runs  all  the  while.  The 
children  eat  dirt  and  the  mothers  work.  If  the 
dead  man  own  a  negro,  they  bury  him  with  his 
master  to  wait  on  him  in  paradise,  and  despatch 


NATURE.  57 

the  doctor  to  be  sure  of  one  in  the  other  state. 
The  men  and  women  dress  alike,  and  they  have 
no  police  or  civility ;  everybody  does  what  he 
pleases. 

"  Lo,  the  poor  Indian,  whose  untutored  mind 
Brews  beer  in  heaven,  and  drinks  it  for  mankind." 


58  THOREAU. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ANIMALS   AND    SEASONS. 

"  Lus  aguas  van  con  los  cielos."  —  COLUMBUS. 

"  It  snewed  in  his  house  of  mete  and  drinke."  —  CHAUCEB. 

A  NOTHER  faithful  reading  was  those  old 
Roman  farmers,  Cato  and  Varro,  and  musi 
cally  named  Columella,  for  whom  he  had  a  liking. 
He  is  reminded  of  them  by  seeing  the  farmers  so 
busy  in  the  fall  carting  out  their  compost.  "  I  see 
the  farmer  now  on  every  side  carting  out  his 
manure,  and  sedulously  making  his  compost-heap, 
or  scattering  it  over  his  grass-ground  and  breaking 
it  up  with  a  mallet,  and  it  reminds  me  of  Gate's 
advice.  He  died  150  years  before  Christ.  Indeed, 
the  farmer's  was  pretty  much  the  same  routine  then 
as  now.  '  Sterquilinium  magnum  stude  ut  habeas. 
Stercus  sedulo  conserva,  cum  exportatis  purgato  et 
comminuito.  Per  autumnum  evehito.'  Study  to 
have  a  great  dungheup.  Carefully  preserve  your 
dung.  When  you  carry  it  out,  make  clean  work  of 
it,  and  break  it  up  fine.  Carry  it  out  during  the 
autumn."  Just  such  directions  as  you  find  in  the 
Farmers'  Almanac  to-day.  As  if  the  farmers  of 
Concord  were  obeying  Cato's  directions,  wiio  but 


ANIMALS  AND   SEASONS.  59 

repeated  the  maxims  of  a  remote  antiquity.  Noth 
ing  can  be  more  homely  and  suggestive  of  the 
every-day  life  of  the  Roman  agriculturists,  thus 
supplying  the  usual  deficiencies  in  what  is  techni 
cally  called  Roman  history;  i.e., revealing  to  us  the 
actual  life  of  the  Romans,  the  "  how  they  got  their 
living,"  and  "what  they  did  from  day  to  day." 
Rome  and  the  Romans  commonly  are  a  piece  of 
rhetoric,  but  we  have  here  their  "New  England 
Farmer,"  or  the  very  manual  those  Roman  farmers 
read,  as  fresh  as  a  dripping  dishcloth  from  a  Roman 
kitchen. 

His  study  of  old  writers  011  Natural  History  was 
^careful:  Aristotle,  JElian,  and  Theophrastus  he 
sincerely  entertained,  and  found  from  the  latter 
that  neither  the  weather  nor  its  signs  had  altered 
since  his  day.  Pliny's  magnum  opus  was  his  last 
reading  in  this  direction,  a  work  so  valuable  to 
him,  with  the  authors  just  named,  that  he  meant 
probably  to  translate  and  write  on  the  subject  as 
viewed  by  the  ancients.  As.  illustrations,  he  care 
fully  noted  many  facts  from  modern  travellers, 
whose  writing  hatches  Jack-the-Giant-Killers  as 
large  as  Pliny's.  He  observed  that  Aristotle  was 
furnished  by  the  king  with  elephants  and  other 
creatures  for  dissection  and  study :  his  observations 
on  the  habits  of  fish  and  their  nests  especially 
interested  Thoreau,  an  expert  in  spawn.  In  con- 


60  THOSE  AU. 

tinning  this  line  of  study,  he  was  aided  by  the 
perusal  of  St.  Pierre,  Gerard,  Linnaeus,  and  early 
writers.  The  "  Studies  of  Nature "  he  admired, 
as  written  with  enthusiasm  and  spirit,  —  qualities 
in  his  view  essential  to  all  good  writing.  The  old 
English  botanist  pleased  him  by  his  affectionate 
interest  in  plants,  with  something  quaint,  like  Eve 
lyn,  Tusser,  and  Walton.  Recent  scientific  pdte-de- 
foie-gras — a  surfeit  of  microscope  and  "dead  words 
with  a  tail" — he  valued  for  what  it  is  worth, 
— the  stuffing.  For  the  Swede,  his  respect  was 
transcendent.  There  is  no  better  explanation  of 
his  love  for  botany  than  the  old  —  "Consider  the 
lilies  of  the  field  how  they  grow ;  they  toil  not, 
neither  do  they  spin :  and  yet  I  say  unto  you,  that 
even  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like 
one  of  these."  His  pleasant  company,  during  so 
many  days  of  every  year,  he  wished  he  was  better 
acquainted  with.  The  names  and  classes  change,, 
the  study  of  the  lovely  flower  persists.  He  wished 
to  know  willow  and  grass  and  sedge,  and  there 
came  always  with  the  new  year  the  old  wish 
renewed :  a  carex,  a  salix,  kept  the  family  secret. 

"  For  years  my  appetite  was  so  strong  that  I  fed, 
I  browsed  on  the  pine-forest's  edge  seen  against 
the  winter  horizon,  —  the  silvery  needles  of  the 
pine  straining  the  light;  the  young  aspen-leaves 
like  light  green  fires.  The  young  birch-leaves, 


ANIMALS  AND   SEASONS.  Cl 

very  neatly  plaited,  small,  triangular,  light  green 
leaves,  yield  an  agreeable,  sweet  fragrance,  just 
expanded  arid  sticky,  sweet-scented  as  innocence. 
.  .  .  The  first  humble-bee,  that  prince  of  hum 
mers, —  he  follows  after  flowers.  To  have  your 
existence  depend  on  flowers,  like  the  bee  and 
humming-birds.  ...  I  expect  that  the  lichenist 
will  have  the  keenest  relish  for  Nature  in  her 
every-day  mood  and  dress.  He  will  have* the 
appetite  of  the  worm  that  never  dies,  of  the  grub. 
This  product  of  the  bark  is  the  essence  of  all  times. 
The  lichenist  loves  the  tripe  of  the  rock,  that 
which  eats  and  digests  the  rock :  he  eats  the  eater. 
A  rail  is  the  fattest  and  sleekest  of  coursers  for 
him.  .  .  .  The  blue  curls  and  fragrant  everlasting, 
with  their  ripening  aroma,  show  themselves  now 
pushing  up  on  dry  fields,  bracing  to  the  thought; 
I  need  not  smell  the  calamint,  —  it  is  a  balm  to  my 
mind  to  remember  its  fragrance.  TJie  pontederia 
is  in  its  prime,  alive  with  butterflies,  —  yellow  and 
others.  I  see  its  tall  blue  spikes  reflected  beneath 
the  edge  of  the  pads  on  each  side,  pointing  down 
to  a  heaven  beneath  as  well  as  above.  Earth 
appears  but  a  thin  crust  or  pellicle. 

"It  is  a  leaf — that  of  the  green-briar  —  for 
poets  to  sing  about:  it  excites  me  to  a  sort  of 
autumnal  madness.  They  are  leaves  for  satyrs 
and  fawns  to  make  their  garlands  of.  My  thoughts 


62  THOREAU. 

break  out  like  them,  spotted  all  over,  yellow  and 
green  and  brown,  —  the  freckled  leaf.  Perhaps 
they  should  be  poison  to  be  thus  spotted.  I  have 
now  found  all  the  Hawk-weeds.  Singular  are 
these  genera  of  plants,  —  plants  manifestly  related, 
yet  distinct.  They  suggest  a  history  to  nature,  a 
natural  history  in  a  new  sense.  .  .  .  Any  anomaly 
in  vegetation  makes  Nature  seem  more  real  and 
present  in  her  working,  as  the  various  red  and 
yellow  excrescences  on  young  oaks.  I  am  affected 
as  if  it  were  a  different  nature  that  produced  them. 
As  if  a  poet  were  born,  who  had  designs  in  his 
head.  ...  I  perceive  in  the  Norway  cinque-foil 
(Potentilla  Norvegica),  now  nearly  out  of  blossom, 
that  the  alternate  six  leaves  of  the  calyx  are  clos 
ing  over  the  seeds  to  protect  them.  This  evidence 
of  forethought,  this  simple  reflection  in  a  double 
sense  of  the  term,  in  this  flower  is  affecting  to  me, 
as  if  it  said  to  me,  'Not  even  when  I  have  blos 
somed  and  have  lost  my  painted  petals,  and  am 
preparing  to  die  down  to  its  root,  do  I  forget  to 
fall  with  my  arms  around  my  babe,  faithful  to  the 
last,  that  the  infant  may  be  found  preserved  in  the 
arms  of  the  frozen  mother.'  There  is  one  door 
closed  of  the  closing  year.  I  am  not  ashamed  to 
be  contemporary  with  the  cinque-foil.  May  I  per 
form  my  part  as  well.  We  love  to  see  Nature 
fruitful  in  whatever  kind.  I  love  to  see  the  acorns 


ANIMALS  AND   SEASONS.  63 

plenty  on  the  scrub-oaks,  ay,  and  the  night-shade 
berries.  It  assures  us  of  her  vigor,  and  that  she 
may  equally  bring  forth  fruits  which  we  prize.  I 
love  to  see  the  potato-balls  numerous  and  large, 
as  I  go  through  a  low  field,  the  plant  thus  bearing 
fruit  at  both  ends,  saying  ever  and  anon,  4  Not 
only  these  tubers  I  offer  you  for  the  present,  but  if 
you  will  have  new  varieties  (if  these  do  not  satisfy 
you),  plant  these  seeds,  fruit  of  the  strong  soil, 
containing  potash ;  the  vintage  is  come,  the  olive 
is  ripe.  Why  not  for  my  coat-of-arms,  for  device, 
a  drooping  cluster  of  potato-balls  in  a  potato  field  ? 

"  I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude, 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude, 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year." 

jrhese  glimpses  at  the  life  of  the  lover  of  nature 
admonish  us  of  the  richness,  the  satisfactions  in 
his  uniinpoverished  districts.  Man  needs  an  open 
mind  and  a  pure  purpose,  to  become  receptive. 
His  interest  in  animals  equalled  that  in  flowers. 
At  one  time  he  carried  his  spade,  digging  in  the 
galleries  and  burrows  of  field-mice.  "  They  run 
into  their  holes,  as  if  they  had  exploded  before 
your  eyes."  Many  voyages  he  made  in  cold  autumn 
days  and  winter  walks  on  the  ice,  to  examine  the 
cabins  of  the  muskrat  and  discover  precisely  how 
and  of  what  they  were  built,  —  the  suite  of  rooms 
always  damp,  yet  comfortable  for  the  household, 


64  THOREAU. 

dressed  in  their  old-fashioned  waterproofs.  He 
respected  the  skunk  as  a  human  being  in  a  very 
humble  sphere. 

In  his  western  tour  of  1860,  when  he  went  to 
Minnesota  and  found  the  crab-apple  and  native 
Indians,  he  pleased  himself  with  a  new  friend,  — 
the  gopher  with  thirteen  stripes.  Eabbits,  wood- 
chucks,  red,  gray,  and  "chipmunk"  squirrels,  he 
knew  by  heart;  the  fox  never  came  amiss.  A 
Canada  lynx  was  killed  in  Concord,  whose  skin  he 
eagerly  obtained  and  preserved.  It  furnished  a 
proof  of  wildness  intact,  and  the  nine  lives  of  a 
wildcat.  He  mused  on  the  change  of  habit  in 
domestic  animals,  and  recites  a  porcine  epic,  — 
the  adventures  of  a  fanatic  pig.  He  was  a  debtor 
to  the  cows  like  other  walkers. 

"  When  you  approach  to  observe  them,  they 
mind  you  just  enough.  How  wholesome  and  clean 
their  clear  brick  red !  No  doubt  man  impresses 
his  own  character  on  the  beasts  which  he  tames 
and  employs.  They  are  not  only  humanized,  but 
they  acquire  his  particular  human  nature.  .  .  . 
The  farmer  acts  on  the  ox,  and  the  ox  reacts  on  the 
farmer.  They  do  not  meet  half  way,  it  is  true  ;  but 
they  do  meet  at  a  distance  from  the  centre  of  each, 
proportionate  to  each  one's  intellectual  power." 

Let  us  hasten  to  his  lovely  idyl  of  the  "  Beau 
tiful  Heifer:"  — 


ANIMALS  AND   SEASONS.  65 

"  One  more  confiding  heifer,  the  fairest  of  the 
herd,  did  by  degrees  approach  as  if  to  take  some 
morsel  from  our  hands,  while  our  hearts  leaped 
to  our  mouths  with  expectation  and  delight.  She 
by  degrees  drew  near  with  her  fair  limbs  (progres 
sive),  making  pretence  of  browsing;  nearer  and 
nearer,  till  there  was  wafted  to  us  the  bovine  fra 
grance, —  cream  of  all  the  dairies  that  ever  were 
or  will  be :  and  then  she  raised  her  gentle  muzzle 
towards  us,  and  snuffed  an  honest  recognition 
within  hand's  reach.  I  saw  it  was  possible  for  his 
herd  to  inspire  with  love  the  herdsman.  She  was 
as  delicately  featured  as  a  hind.  Her  hide  was 
mingled  white  and  fawn  color,  and  on  her  muzzle's 
tip  there  was  a  white  spot  not  bigger  than  a  daisy ; 
and  on  her  side  turned  toward  me,  the  map  of  Asia 
plain  to  see. 

"  Farewell,  dear  heifer !  Though  thou  forget- 
test  me,  my  prayer  to  heaven  shall  be  that  thou 
mayst  not  forget  thyself.  There  was  a  whole 
bucolic  in  her  snuff.  I  saw  her  name  was  Sumac. 
And  by  the  kindred  spots  I  knew  her  mother, 
more  sedate  and  matronly  with  full-grown  bag, 
and  on  her  sides  was  Asia  great  and  small,  the 
plains  of  Tartary,  even  to  the  pole ;  while  on  her 
daughter's  was  Asia  Minor.  She  was  not  disposed 
to  wanton  with  the  herdsman.  And  as  I  walked 
she  followed  me,  and  took  an  apple  from  my  hand, 


66  THOREAU. 

and  seemed  to  care  more  for  the  hand  than  the 
apple.  So  innocent  a  face  as  I  have  rarely  seen  on 
any  creature,  and  I  have  looked  in  the  face  of 
many  heifers.  And  as  she  took  the  apple  from 
my  hand  I  caught  the  apple  of  her  eye.  She 
smelled  as  sweet  as  the  clethra  blossom.  There 
was  no  sinister  expression.  And  for  horns,  though 
she  had  them,  they  were  so  well  disposed  in  the 
right  place,  but  neither  up  nor  down,  I  do  not 
now  remember  she  had  any.  No  horn  was  held 
towards  me." 

Seeing  a  flock  of  turkeys,  the  old  faintly  gob 
bling,  the  half-grown  young  peeping,  they  suggest 
a  company  of  "  turkey-men."  He  loves  a  cricket 
or  a  bee :  — 

"  As  I  went  through  the  deep  cut  before  sunrise, 
I  heard  one  or  two  early  humble-bees  come  out  on 
the  deep,  sandy  bank :  their  low  hum  sounds  like 
distant  horns  far  in  the  horizon,  over  the  woods. 
It  was  long  before  I  detected  the  bees  that  made 
it,  so  far  away  musical  it  sounded,  like  the  shep 
herds  in  some  distant  vale  greeting  the  king  of 
day.  Why  was  there  never  a  poem  on  the  cricket  ? 
so  serene  and  cool,  —  the  iced-cream  of  song.  It 
is  modulated  shade ;  heard  in  the  grass  chirping 
from  everlasting  to  everlasting,  the  incessant  cricket 
of  the  fall ;  no  transient  love-strain  hushed  when 
the  incubating  season  is  past.  They  creak  hard 


ANIMALS  AND   SEASONS.  67 

now  after  sunset,  no  word  will  spell  it;  and  the 
humming  of  a  dorbug  drowns  all  the  noise  of  the 
village.  So  roomy  is  the  universe.  The  moqn 
comes  out  of  the  mackerel-cloud,  and  the  traveller 
rejoices." 

No  class  of  creatures  he  found  better  than  birds. 
With  these  mingled  his  love  for  sound:  "Listen 
to  music  religiously,  as  if  it  were  the  last  strain 
you  might  hear.  Sugar  is  not  as  sweet  to  the 
palate  as  sound  to  the  healthy  ear.  Is  not  all 
music  a  hum  more  or  less  divine  ?  "  His  concert 
was  the  blue-bird,  the  robin,  and  song-sparrow, 
melting  into  joy  after  the  silent  winter.  "  Do  you 
know  on  what  bushes  a  little  peace,  faith,  and  con 
tentment  grow?  Go  a-berrying  early  and  late 
after  them."  The  color  of  the  bluebird  seemed  to 
him  "  as  if  he  carried  the  sky  on  his  back.  And 
where  are  gone  the  bluebirds  whose  warble  was 
wafted  to  me  so  lately  like  a  blue  wavelet  through 
the  air,  warbling  so  innocently  to  inquire  if  any 
of  its  mates  are  within  call?  The  very  grain  of 
the  air  seems  to  have  undergone  a  change,  and  is 
ready  to  split  into  the  form  of  the  bluebird's  war 
ble.  The  air  over  these  fields  is  a  foundry  full  of 
moulds  for  casting  bluebirds'  warbles.  Methinks 
if  it  were  visible  or  I  could  cast  up  some  fine  dust 
which  would  betray  it,  it  would  take  a  correspond 
ing  shape." 


68  TEOREAU. 

CHAPTER   V. 

LITEIIARY  THEMES. 

No  tidings  come  to  thee 
Not  of  thy  very  neighbors, 
That  dvvellen  almost  at  thy  doors, 
Thou  hearest  neither  that  nor  this; 
For  when  thy  labor  all  done  is, 
And  hast  made  all  thy  reckonings, 
Instead  of  rest  and  of  new  tilings, 
Thou  goest  home  to  thy  house  anon. 

CHAUCER. 

To  hill  and  cloud  his  face  was  known,  — 
It  seemed  the  likeness  of  their  own. 

EMERSON. 

His  short  parenthesis  of  life  was  sweet. 

STOKER'S  LIFE  OF  WOLSEY. 

EN  commonty  exaggerate  the  theme.  Some 
themes  they  think  are  significant,  and 
others  insignificant.  I  feel  that  my  life  is  very 
homely,  my  pleasures  very  cheap.  [Joy  and  sorrow, 
success  and  failure,  grandeur  and  meanness,  and 
indeed  most  words  in  the  English  language,  do  not 
mean  for  me  what  they  do  for  my  neighbors.  I  see 
that  my  neighbors  look  with  compassion  on  me, 
that  they  think  it  is  a  mean  and  unfortunate  des 
tiny  which  makes  me  to  walk  in  these  fields  and 
woods  so  much,  and  sail  on  this  river  alone.  But 
so  long  as  I  find  here  the  only  real  elysium,  I  can 
not  hesitate  in  my  choice.  My  work  is  writing, 


"ME 


LITERARY  THEMES. 


69 


and  I  do  not  hesitate  though  I  know  that  no  sub 
ject  is  too  trivial  for  me,  tried  by  ordinary  stand 
ards  ;  for,  ye  fools,  the  theme  is  nothing,  the  life  is 
every  thing.  All  that  interests  the  reader  is  the 
depth  and  intensity  of  the  life  exerted.  We  touch 
our  subject  but  by  a  point  which  has  no  breadth ; 
but  the  pyramid  of  our  experience,  or  our  interest 
in  it,  rests  on  us  by  a  broader  or  narrower  base. 
What  is  man  is  all  in  all,  Nature  nothing  but  as  she 
draws  him  out  and  reflects  him.  Give  me  simple, 
cheap,  and  homely  themes." 

These  words  from  Thoreau  partially  illustrate 
his  views  upon  the  subjects  he  proposed  to  treat 
and  how  they  should  be  treated,  with  that  poetic 
wealth  he  enjoyed,  and  no  one  need  look  for 
prose.  He  never  thought  or  spoke  or  wrote  that. 

In  the  same  spirit  he  'says  of  his  first  book,  which 
had  a  slow  sale  :  "I  believe  that  this  result  is  moren; 
inspiring  and  better  for  me  than  if  a  thousand  had  j 
bought  my  wares.     It  affects  my  privacy  less,  and 
leaves  me  freer.     Men  generally  over-estimate  their  j 
praises."     Of  these  themes,  the  following  is  one/ 
view  among  others :  — 

"  As  I  walked  I  was  intoxicated  with  the  slight, 
spicy  odor  of  the  hickory-buds  and  the  bruised 
bark  of  the  black-birch,  and  in  the  fall  with  the 
pennyroyal.  The  sight  of  budding  woods  intoxi 
cates  me  like  diet-drink.  I  feel  my  Maker  blessing 


. 

70  THOREA  U. 

me.     To   the   sane   man   the   world  is   a   musical 
instrument.     Formerly  methought   Nature   devel- 

^oped  as  I  developed,  and  grew  up  with  me.  My 
life  was  ecstasy.  .  In  youth,  before  I  lost  any  of 
my  senses,  I  can  remember  that  I  was  all  alive  and 
inhabited  my  body  with  inexpressible  satisfaction ; 
both  its  weariness  and  its  refreshment  were  sweet 

(to  me.  This  earth  was  the  most  glorious  musical1 
instrument,  and  I  was  audience  to  its  strains.  To 
have  such  sweet  impressions  made  on  us,  such 
ecstasies  begotten  of  the  breezes,  I  can  remember 
I  was  astonished.  I  said  to  myself,  I  said  to 
others,  there  comes  into  my  mind  such  an  indescrib 
able,  infinite,  all-absorbing,  divine,  heavenly  pleas 
ure,  a  sense  of  salvation  and  expansion.  And  I 
have  had  naught  to  do  with  it ;  I  perceive  that  I 
am  dealt  with  by  superior  powers.  By  all  manner 
of  bounds  and  traps  threatening  the  extreme  penalty 
of  the  divine  law,  it  behooves  us  to  preserve  the 
purity  and  sanctity  of  the  mind.  That  I  am  inno 
cent  to  myself,  that  I  love  and  reverence  my  life." 
To  make  these  themes  into  activities,  he  con 
sidered,  — 

"  The  moods  and  thoughts  of  man  are  revolving 
just  as  steadily  and  incessantly  as  Nature's.  Noth 
ing  must  be  postponed ;  take  time  by  the  forelock, 
now  or  never,  f^ou^  must  live  ini  the  present, 
yourself  on  any  wave,  find  your  eternity  in 


LITERARY  THEMES.  71 

each  moment,  f  Fools  stand  on  their  island  oppor 
tunities,  andjook  toward,  another  land.     There  la_> 
no_other_land,  there  is  no  oilier  life  but  this  or  the 
like    of   this.      Where   the   good   husbandman  is, 
there  is  the  good  soil.     Take  any  other  course,  and  *' 
life  will  be  a  succession  of  .regrets." 

If  writing  is  his  business,  to  do  this  well  must 
be  sought. 

"  What  a  faculty  must  that  be  which  can  paint 
the  most  barren  landscape  and  humblest  life  in 
glorious  colors.  It  is  pure  and  invigorated  sense 
reacting  on  a  sound  and  strong  imagination.  Is 
not  this  the  poet's  case  ?  The  intellect  of  most 
men  is  barren.  It  is  the  Tng/rfingp.  ^  ^p  go."1 
Nature  that  makes  the  intellect  fruitful.,  thn.f, 


birth  to  imagination.     When  we  were  dead  and 
dry  as  the  highway,  some  sense  which  has  been 
healthily  fed  will  put  us  in  relation  with  Nature,  in 
sympathy  with  her,  some  grains  of  fertilizing  pollen 
floating  in  the  air  fall  on  us,  and  suddenly  the  sky  is 
all  one  rainbow,  is  full  of  music  and  fragrance  and 
flavor.       The   man  of   intellect  only,   the  prosaic  / 
man,  is   a   barren   and  staminiferous  flower  ;    the  / 
poet   is   a   fertile   and   perfect  flower.     The  po_et 
must  keep  himself  unstained  and  aloof.     Let  him  > 
perambulate  the  bounds  of  Imagination's  provinces, 
the  realms  of  poesy  and  not  the  insignificant  boun 
daries  of  towns.     How  many  faculties  there  are 


72  THOEEAU. 


which  we  have  never  found.     Some  men  methinks 
have  found  only  their  hands  and  feet. 

"  It  is  wise  to  write  on  many  subjects,  to  try  many 
themes,  that  so  you  may  find  the  right  and  inspir 
ing  one.  Be  greedy  of  occasions  to  express  your 
thoughts  ;  improve  the  opportimity^to  draw  anal 
ogies  ;  there~areTnnumerable  avenues  to  a  percep 
tion  of  the  truth.  Improve  the  suggestion  of  each 
object,  however  humble,  however  slight  and  tran 
sient*  the  provocation;  what  else  is  there  to  be 
improved?  Who  knows  what  opportunities  he 
may  neglect  ?  It  is  not  in  vain  that  the  mind 
turns  aside  this  way  or  that :  follow  its  leading, 
apply  it  whither  it  inclines  to  go.  Probe  the 
universe  in  a  myriad  points.  Be  avaricious  of 
these  impulses.  Nature  makes  a  thousand  acorns 
to  get  one  oak.  He  is  a  wise  man  and  experienced 
who  has  taken  many  views,  to  whom^stones  and 
plants  and  animals,  and  a  myriad  objects  have 
each  suggested  something,  contributed  something.  < 
We  cannot  write  well  or  truly  but  what  we  write"" 
with  gusto.  The  body  and  senses  must  conspire 
with _  ..the  -s»fi4.  Experience  is  the  act  of  the 
whole  man,  —  that  our  speech  may  be  vascular. 
The  intellect  is  powerless  to  express  thought  with 
out  the  aid  of  the  heart  and  liver  and  of  every 
member.  Often  I  feel  that  my  head  stands  out  too 
dry  when  it  should  be  immersed.  A  writer,  a  man 


LITERARY  THEMES.  73 

writing,  is  the  scribe  of  all  nature ;  he  is  the  corn 
and  the  grass  and  the  atmosphere  writing.     Tfr  iff  — 
always  essential  that  we   live  to  do  what  we  are 
doing,  do  it  with  a  heart.     There  are  flowers  of 
thought  and  there  are  leaves  of  thought,  and  most 
of   our  thoughts  are  merely  leaves  to   which  the 
thread  of  thought  is  the  stem.     Whatever  things  I 
perceive  with  my  entire  man,  those  let. me  record 
and  it  will  be  poetry.     The  sounds  which  I  hear 
with  the  consent  and  coincidence  of  all  my  senses, 
those  are  significant  and  musical;    at  least,  they 
only  are  heard.     I  omit  the  unusual,  the  hurricanes 
and  earthquakes,  and  describe  the  common.     This 
has  the  greatest  charm,  and  is  the  true  theme  of 
poetry.     You  may  have  the  extraordinary  for  your 
province  if  you  will ;   let  me  have  the  ordinary.  I 
Give  me  the  obscure  life,  the  "cottage  of  the  poor  \ 
and  humble,  the  work-days  of  the  world,  the  bar-  | 
ren  fields;    the  smallest  share  of   all   things   but  j 
poetical  perception.     Give  me  but  the  eyes  to  see 
thlPEhlngs  which  you  possess." 

As  he  writes  of  the  strawberry,  "It  is  natural 
that  the  first  fruit  which  the  earth  bears  shall  emit 
and  be  as  it  were  an  embodiment  of  that  vernal 
fragrance  with  which  the  air  has  teemed,"  so  he 
represented  the  .purity  and  sweetness  _p.f  youtU, 
which  in  him  never  grew  old. 


74  TEOEEAU. 

"  How  watchful  we  must  be  to  keep  the  crystal 
well  clear,  that  it  be  not  made  turbid  by  our  con 
tact  with/the  world,  so  that  it  will  not  reflect 
objects./ If  I  would  preserve  my  relation  to  Nature, 
I  must  make  my  life  more  moral,  more  pure  and 
innocent. /The  problem  is  as  precise  and  simple  as 
a  mathematical  one.  I  must  not  live  loosely,  but 
more  and  more  continently.  How  can  we  expect 
a  harvest  of  thought  who  have  not  had  a  seed-time 
of  character  ?  Already  some  of  my  small  thoughts, 
fruit  of  my  spring  life,  are  ripe,  like  the  berries 
which  feed  the  first  broods  of  birds  ;  and  some  others 
are  prematurely  ripe  and  bright  like  the  lower 
leaves  of  the  herbs  which  have  felt  the  summer's 
drought.  Human  life  may  be  transitory  and  full 
of  trouble,  but  the  perennial  mind  whose  survey 
extends  from  that  spring  to  this,  from  Columella  to 
Hosmer,  is  superior  to  change.  I  will  identify 
myself  with  that  which  will  not  die  with  Columella 
and  will  not  die  with  Hosmer." 

As  the  song  of  the  spring  birds  makes  the  rich 
est  music  of  the  year,  it  seems  a  fit  overture  to 
have  given  a  few  of  Thoreau's  spring  sayings  upon 
his  life  and  work.  Few  men  knew  better,  or  so 
well,  what  these  were.  In.  some  senses  he  was 
a  scientific  man,  in  others  not.  I  do  not  think  he 
relished  science  in  long  words,  or  the  thing  Words 
worth  calls  — 


LITERARY  THEMES.  75 


'Philosopher  !  a  fingering  slave, 
\    One  that  would  peep  and  botanize 
Upon  his  mother's  grave."   ~) 


He  loved  Nature  as  (^  child, )  reverenced  her 
veils  that  we  should  not  conceitedly  endeavor  to 
raise.-  He  did  not  believe  the  study  of  anatomy 
helped  the  student  to  a  practical  knowledge  ot  the 
human  body,  and  replied  to  a  suggested  prescrip- 
Jion^J4  How  do  you  know  that  his  pills  will  go 
down?"  Nor  that  the  eggs  of  turtles  to  be,  seen 
through  a  glass  darkly,  were  turtles,  and  said  to 
the  ornithologist  who  wished  to  hold  his  bird  in  his 
hand  that  "he  would  rather  hold  it  in  his  affec 
tions."  So  he  saw  the  colors  of  his  with  a  kind 
heart,  and  let  the  spiders  slide.  Yet  no  man  spent 
more  labor  in  making  out  his  bird  by  Wilson  or 
Nuttall. 

His  was  a  broad  catholic  creed.  As  he  thought 
of  the  Hindoo  Mythology,  "  It  rises  on  me  like 
the  full  moon  after  the  stars  have  come  out,  wading 
through  some  far  summer  stratum  of  sky."  From 
Homer,  who  made  a  corner  with  Grecian  mythol 
ogy,  to  his  beloved  Indian,  whose  life  of  scalping 
and  clam-bakes  was  a  religion,  he  could  appreciate 
the  good  of  creeds  and  forms  and  omit  the  scruples. 
He  says :  — 

"  If  I  could,  I  woiild  worship  the  paring  of  my 
nails.  He  who  discovers  two  gods  where  there 


76  THOEEAU. 

was  only  known  to  be  one,  and  such  a  one !  I 
would  fain  improve  every  opportunity  to  wonder 
and  worship  as  a  sunflower  welcomes  the  light." 
"  God  could  not  be  unkind  to  me  if  he  should  try. 
I  love  best  to  have  each  thing  in  its  season,  doing 
without  it  at  all  other  times.  It  is  the  greatest  of 
all  advantages  to  enjoy  no  advantage  at  all.  I 
have  never  got  over  my  surprise  that  I  should  have 
been  born  into  the  most  estimable  place  in  all  the 
world,  and  in  the  very  nick  of  time  too.  I  heard 
one  speak  to-day  of  his  sense  of  awe  at  the  thought 
of  God,  and  suggested  to  him  that  awe  was  the 
cause  of  the  potato-rot." 

He  again  expressed  himself  in  a  lively  way 
about  these  matters:  )/Who  are  the  religious? 
They  who  do  not  differ  much  from  mankind  gener 
ally,  except  that  they  are  more  conservative  and 
timid  and  useless,  but  who  in  their  conversation 
and  correspondence  talk  about  kindness  and  Heav 
enly  Father,  instead  of  going  bravely  about  their 
business,  trusting  God  even."/  He  once  knew  a 
minister,  and  photographs  mm :  "  Here's  a  man 
who  can't  butter  his  own  bread,  and  he  has  just 
combined  with  one  thousand  like  him  to  make  a 
dipt  toast  for  all  eternity." 

Of  a  book  published  by  Miss  Harriet  Martineau, 
that  Minerva  mediocre,  he  observes :  "  Miss  Martin- 
eau's  last  book  is  not  so  bad  as  the  timidity  which 


LITERARY  THEMES.  77 

fears  its  influence.  As  if  the  popularity  of  this  or 
that  book  could  be  so  fatal,  and  man  would  not 
still  be  man  in  the  world.  Nothing  is  so  much  to 
be  feared  as  fear.  Atheism  may,  comparatively,  be 
popular  with  God."  Religion,  worship,  and  prayer 
were  words  he  studied  in  their  history ;  but  out-of- 
doors,  wThich  can  serve  for  the  title  of  much  of  his' 
writing,  is  his  creed.  He  used  this  expression: 
"  May  I  love  and  revere  myself  above  all  the  gods  , 
that  man  has  ever  invented ;  may  I  never  let  the  j 
vestal  fire  go  out  in  my  recesses." 
xHSte  thought  the  past  and  the  men  of  the  past,  as 
they  crop  out  in  institutions,  were  not  as  valuable  as 
the  present  and  the  individual  aliva^*  "  They  who 
will  remember  only  this  kind  of  right  do  as  if 
they  stood  under  a  shed  and  affirmed  that  they 
were  under  the  unobserved  heavens.  The  shed 
has  its  use,  but  what  is  it  to  the  heavens  above." 
The  institution  of  American  slavery  was  a  filthy 
and  rotten  shed  which  Thoreau  used  his  utmost 
strength  to  cut  away  and  burn  up.  From  first  to 
last  he  loved  and  honored  abolitionism.  Not  one 
slave  alone  was  expedited  to  Canada  by  Thoreau's 
personal  assistance. 


78  TEOEEAU. 

CHAPTER   VI. 

SPRING   AND   AUTUMN. 

"  Methinks  I  hear  the  sound  of  time  long  past, 
•  Still  murmuring  o'er  us  in  the  lofty  void 

Of  these  dark  arches,  like  the  ling' ring  voice 

Of  those  who  long  within  their  graves  have  slept." 

OKRA,  A  TRAGEDY. 

A  S  he  is  dropping  beans  in  the  spring,  he  hears 

the  bay  wing :  — 

"  I  saw  the  world  through  a  glass  as  it  lies  eter 
nally.  It  reminded  me  of  many  a  summer  sunset, 
of  many  miles  of  gray  rails,  of  many  a  rambling 
pasture,  of  the  farmhouse  far  in  the  fields,  its 
milk-pans  and  well-sweep,  and  the  cows  coming 
home  at  twilight ;  I  correct  my  Human  views  by 
listening  to  their  Volucral.  I  ordinarily  plod  along 
a  sort  of  whitewashed  prison  entry,  subject  to 
some  indifferent  or  even  grovelling  mood  ;  I  do  not 
distinctly  seize  my  destiny;  I  have  turned  down 
my  light  to  the  merest  glimmer,  and  am  doing 
some  task  which  I  have  set  myself.  I  take  incred 
ibly  narrow  views,  live  on  the  limits,  and  have  no 
recollection  of  absolute  truth.  But  suddenly,  in 
Borne  fortunate  moment,  the  voice  of  eternal  wis 
dom  reaches  me  even  in  the  strain  of  the  sparrow, 
and  liberates  me ;  whets  and  clarifies  my  own 
senses,  makes  me  a  competent  witness." 


SPUING  AND  AUTUMN.  79 

He  says  elswhere  of  the  same  sparrow :  "  The 
end  of  its  strain  is  like  the  ring  of  a  small  piece  of 
steel  wire  dropped  on  an  anvil."  How  he  loved 
Aurora  !  how  he  loved  the  morning  !  "  You  must 
taste  the  first  glass  of  the  day's  nectar  if  you 
would  get  all  the  spirit  of  it.  Its  fixed  air  begins 
to  stir  and  escape.  The  sweetness  of  the  day 
'crystallizes  in  the  morning  coolness."  The  mom- 
ing  was  the  spring  of  the  day,  and  spring  the 
morning  of  the  year!  Then  he  said,  musing :  "  All 
Mature  revives  at  this  season.  With  her  it  is  really 
a  new  life,  but  with  these  church-goers  it  is  only 
a  revival  of  religion  or  hypocrisy ;  they  go  down 
stream  to  still  muddier  waters.  It  cheers  me 
more  to  behold  the  mass  of  gnats  which  have 
revived  in  the  spring  sun .  If  a  man  do  not  revive 
with  Nature  in  the  spring,  how  shall  he  revive 
when  a  white- collared  priest  prays  for  him  ? " 
This  dash  at  theological  linen  is  immediately  fol 
lowed  by  "  small  water-bugs  in  Clematis  Brook." 

Of  the  willow  fish-creel  in  Farrar's  Brook  he 
says :  — 

"  It  was  equal  to  a  successful  stanza  whose 
subject  was  spring.  I  see  those  familiar  features, 
that  large  type  with  which  all  my  life  is  associated, 
unchanged.  We  too  are  obeying  the  laws  of  all 
nature.  Not  less  important  are  the  observers  of 
the  birds  than  the  birds  themselves.  This  rain  is 


80  TEOREAU. 

good  for  thought,  it  is  especially  agreeable  to  me 
as  I  enter  the  wood  and  hear  the  rustling  dripping 
ori  the  leaves.  It  domiciliates  me  in  nature.  The 
woods  are  more  like  a  house  for  the  rain ;  the  few 
slight  noises  resound  more  hollow  in  them,  the 
birds  hop  nearer,  the  very  trees  seem  still  and  pen 
sive.  We  love  to  sit  on  and  walk  over  sandy 
tracts  in  the  spring,  like  cicindelas.  These  tongues 
of  russet  land,  tapering  and  sloping  into  the  flood, 
do  almost  speak  to  me.  One  piece  of  ice,  in  break 
ing  on  the  river,  rings  when  struck  on  another, 
like  a  trowel  on  a  brick.  The  loud  peop  of  a 
pigeon  woodpecker  is  heard  in  our  rear,  and  anon 
the  prolonged  and  shrill  cackle  calling  the  thin 
wooded  hillsides  and  pastures  to  life.  You  doubt 
if  the  season  will  be  long  enough  for  such  oriental 
and  luxurious  slowness.  I  think  that  my  senses 
made  the  truest  report  the  first  time.  There  is  a 
time  to  watch  the  ripples  on  Ripple  Lake,  to  look 
for  arrow-heads,  to  study  the  rocks  and  lichens, 
a  time  to  walk  on  sandy  deserts,  and  the  observer 
of  nature  must  improve  these  seasons  as  much  as 
the  farmer  his. 

"  Those  ripple  lakes  lie  now  in  the  midst  of 
mostly  bare,  brown,  or  tawny  dry  woodlands,  them 
selves  the  most  living  objects.  They  may  say  to 
the  first  woodland  flowers,  — '  We  played  with 
the  North  winds  here  before  ye  were  born ! '  When 


SPRING  AND   AUTUMN.  81 

the  playful  breeze  drops  on  the  pool,  it  springs  to 
right  and  left,  quick  as  a  kitten  playing  with  dead 
leaves.  This  pine  warbler  impresses  me  as  if  it 
were  calling  the  trees  to  life ;  I  think  of  springing 
twigs.  Its  jingle  rings  through  the  wood  at  short 
intervals,  as  if,  like  an  electric  spark,  it  imparted  a 
fresh  spring  life  to  them.  The  fresh  land  emerg 
ing  from  the  water  reminds  me  of  the  isle  which 
was  called  up  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  which 
was  given  to  Apollo.  Or,  like  the  skin  of  a  pard, 
the  great  mother  leopard  that  Nature  is,  where 
she  lies  at  length  exposing  her  flanks  to  the  sun. 
I  feel  as  if  I  could  land  to  kiss  and  stroke  the 
very  sward,  it  is  so  fair.  It  is  homely  and  domes 
tic  to  my  eyes  like  the  rug  that  lies  before  my 
hearth-side.  As  the  walls  of  cities  are  fabled  to 
have  been  built  by  music,  so  my  pines  were  estab 
lished  by  the  song  of  the  field-sparrow.  I  heard 
the  jingle  of  the  blackbird,  —  some  of  the  most 
liquid  notes,  as  if  produced  by  some  of  the  water 
of  the  Pierian  spring  flowing  through  some  kind  of 
musical  water-pipe  and  at  the  same  moment  setting 
in  motion  a  multitude  of  fine  vibrating  metallic 
springs,  like  a  shepherd  merely  meditating  most 
enrapturing  tunes  on  such  a  water-pipe.  The 
robin's  song  gurgles  out  of  all  conduits  now, — 
they  are  choked  with  it. 

%t  I   hear   at  a  distance  in  the  meadow,  still  at 
4*  p 


82  THOSE  AU. 

long  intervals,  the  hurried  commencement  of  the 
bobolink's  strain :  the  bird  is  just  touching  the 
strings  of  his  theorbo,  his  glavichord,  his  water- 
organ,  and  one  or  two  notes  globe  themselves  and 
fall  in  liquid  bubbles  from  his  teeming  throat.  .  .  . 
Beginning  slowly  and  deliberately,  the  partridge's 
beat  sounds  faster  and  faster  far  away  under  the 
boughs  and  through  the  aisle  of  the  wood,  until  it 
becomes  a  regular  roll.  How  many  things  shall 
we  not  see  and  be  and  do,  when  we  walk  there 
where  the  partridge  drums.  The  rush-sparrow  jin 
gles  her  small  change, — pure  silver  on  the  counter 
of  the  pasture.  How  sweet  it  sounds  in  a  clear, 
warm  morning,  in  a  wood-side  pasture,  amid  the 
old  corn-hills,  or  in  sprout-lands,  clear  and  distinct 
like  4  a  spoon  in  a  cup,'  the  last  part  very  clear  and 
ringing.  I  hear  the  king-bird  twittering  or  chat 
tering  like  a  stout-chested  swallow,  and  the  sound 
of  snipes  winnowing  the  evening  air.  The  cuckoo 
reminds  me  of  some  silence  among  the  birds  I  had 
not  noticed.  I  hear  the  squirrel  chirp  in  the  wall, 
like  a  spoon.  Times  and  seasons  may  perhaps  be 
best  marked  by  the  notes  of  reptiles  ;  they  express, 
as  it  were,  the  very  feelings  of  the  earth  or  nature. 
About  May-day  the  ring  of  the  first  toad  leaks  into 
the  general  stream  of  sound, — a  bubbling  ring; 
I  am  thrilled  to  my  very  spine,  it  is  so  terrene  a 
sound,  as  crowded  with  protuberant  bubbles  as  the 


SPUING  AND  AUTUMN.  83 

rind  of  an  orange,  sufficiently  considered  by  its 
maker,  in  the  night  and  the  solitude.  I  hear  the 
dumping  sound  of  frogs,  that  know  no  winter.  It 
is  like  the  tap  of  a  drum  when  human  legions  are 
mustering.  It  reminds  me  that  Summer  is  now 
in  earnest  gathering  her  forces,  and  that  ere  long 
I  shall  see  their  waving  plumes  and  hear  the  full 
bands  and  steady  tread.  What  lungs  !  what  health  ! 
what  terrenity  (if  not  serenity)  it  suggests  !  How 
many  walks  I  take  along  the  brooks  in  the  spring ! 
What  shall  I  call  them?  Lesser  riparial  excur 
sions?  prairial  rivular?  If  you  make  the  least 
correct  observation  of  nature  this  year,  you  will 
have  occasion  to  repeat  it  with  illustrations  the  ] 
next,  and  the  season  and  life  itself  is  prolonged./ 
Days  long  enough  and  fair  enough  for  the  worthiest 
deeds.  The  day  is  an  epitome  of  the  year.  I 
think  that  a  perfect  parallel  may  be  drawn  between 
the  seasons  of  the  day  and  of  the  year.  If  the  writer 
would  interest  readers,  he  must  report  so  much  life, 
using  a  certain  satisfaction  always  as  a  point  cTap- 
pui.  However  mean  and  limited,  it  must  be  a 
genuine  and  contented  life  that  he  speaks  out  of. 
They  must  have  the  essence  and  oil  of  himself, 
tried  out  of  the  fat  of  his  experience  and  joy." 

"  The  Titan  heeds  his  sky  affairs, 
Rich  rents  and  wide  alliance  shares  ; 
Mysteries  of  color  daily  laid 
By  the  sun  in  light  and  shade ; 
And  sweet  varieties  of  chance." 


84  THOREAU. 

Color  was  a  treat  to  Thoreau.  He  saw  the 
seasons  and  the  landscapes  through  their  colors ;  * 
and  all  hours  and  fields  and  woods  spoke  in  varied 
hues  which  impressed  him  with  sentiment.  Nature 
does  not  forget  beauty  and  outline  even  in  a  mud- 
turtle's  shell.  Is  it  winter?  —  he  "loves  the  few 
homely  colors  of  Nature  at  this  season,  her  strong, 
wholesome  browns,  her  sober  and  primeval  grays, 
her  celestial  blue,  her  vivacious  green,  her  pure, 
cold,  snowy  white.  The  mountains  look  like 
waves  in  a  blue  ocean  tossed  up  by  a  stiff  gale." 
In  early  spring  he  thinks, — 

"  The  white  saxifrage  is  a  response  from  earth 
to  the  increased  light  of  the  year,  the  yellow  crow 
foot  to  the  increased  light  of  the  sun.  Why  is  the 
pollen  of  flowers  commonly  yellow  ?  The  pyram 
idal  pine-tops  are  now  seen  rising  out  of  a  reddish, 
permanent  mistiness  of  the  deciduous  trees  just 
bursting  into  leaf.  The  sorrel  begins  to  redden 
the  fields  with  ruddy  health.  The  sun  goes  down 
red  again  like  a  high-colored  flower  of  summer. 
As  the  white  and  yellow  flowers  of  the  spring  are 
giving  place  to  the  rose  and  will  soon  to  the  red  lilj-, 
so  the  yellow  sun  of  spring  has  become  a  red  sun 
of  June  drought,  round  and  red  like  a  midsummer 
flower,  productive  of  torrid  heats.  Again,  I  am 
attracted  by  the  deep  scarlet  of  the  wild  rose,  half 
open  in  the  grass,  all  glowing  with  rosy  light." 


SPRING  AND  AUTUMN.  85 

"  The  soft,  mellow,  fawn-colored  light  of  the 
July  sunset  seemed  to  come  from  the  earth  itself. 
My  thoughts  are  drawn  inward,  even  as  clouds  and 
trees  are  reflected  in  the  smooth,  still  water.  There 
is  an  inwardness  even  in  the  musquito's  hum  while 
I  am  picking  blueberries  in  the  dark  wood.  The 
landscape  is  fine  as  behind  glass,  the  horizon  edge 
distinct.  The  distant  vales  towards  the  north-west 
mountains  lie  up  open  and  clear  and  elysian  like  so 
many  Tempes.  The  shadows  of  trees  are  dark  and 
distinct;  the  din  of  trivialness  is  silenced.  The 
woodside  after  sunset  is  cool  as  a  pot  of  green 
paint,  and  the  moon  reflects  from  the  rippled  sur 
face  like  a  stream  of  dollars.  The  shooting  stars 
are  but  fireflies  of  the  firmament.  Late  in  Septem 
ber,  I  see  the  whole  of  the  red-maple,  —  bright 
scarlet  against  the  cold,  green  pines.  The  clear, 
bright  scarlet  leaves  of  the  smooth  sumac  in  many 
places  are  curled  and  drooping,  hanging  straight 
down,  so  as  to  make  a  funereal  impression,  remind 
ing  me  of  a  red  sash  and  a  soldier's  funeral.  They 
impress  me  quite  as  black  crape  similarly  arranged, 
—  the  bloody  plants.  In  mid  December  the  day  is 
short ;  it  seems  to  be  composed  of  two  twilights 
merely,  and  there  is  sometimes  a  -peculiar,  clear, 
vitreous,  greenish  sky  in  the  west,  as  it  were  a 
molten  gem." 

"  In  this  January  thaw  I  hear  the  pleasant  sound 


86  THOSE AU. 

of  running  water ;  here  is  my  Italy,  my  heaven, 
my  New  England.  I  can  understand  why  the 
Indians  hereabouts  placed  heaven  in  the  south-west, 
the  soft  south.  The  delicious,  soft,  spring-suggest 
ing  air  !  The  sky,  seen  here  and  there  through 
the  wrack,  bluish  and  greenish,  and  perchance 
with  a  vein  of  red  in  the  west,  seems  like  the 
inside  of  a  shel]  deserted  by  its  tenant,  into  which 
I  have  crawled.  What  beauty  in  the  running 
brooks !  What  life  !  What  society !  The  cold  is 
merely  superficial ;  it  is  summer  still  at  the  core, 
far,  far  within.  It  is  in  the  cawing  of  the  crow, 
the  crowing  of  the  cock,  the  warmth  of  the  sun  on 
our  backs.  I  hear  faintly  the  cawing  of  a  crow  far, 
far  away,  echoing  from  some  unseen  woodside,  as 
if  deadened  by  the  spring-like  vapor  which  the  sun 
is  drawing  from  the  ground.  It  mingles  with  the 
slight  murmur  from  the  village,  the  sound  of  chil 
dren  at  play,  as  one  stream  gently  empties  into 
another,  and  the  wild  and  tame  are  one.  What  a 
delicious  sound !  It  is  not  merely  crow  calling  to 
crow.  If  he  has  voice,  I  have  ears.  ...  I  think 
I  never  saw  a  more  elysian  blue  than  my  shadow. 
I  am  turned  into  a  tall,  blue  Persian  from  my  cap 
to  my  boots,  such  as  no  mortal  dye  can  produce, 
with  an  amethystine  hatchet  in  my  hand. 

"  The   holes   in  the  pasture   where  rocks  were 
taken  out  are  now  Converted  into  perfect  jewels. 


SPUING  AND  AUTUMN.  87 

They  are  filled  with  water  of  crystalline  transpar 
ency,  through  which  I  see  to  their  emerald  bottoms, 
paved  with  emerald.  Even  these  furnish  goblets 
and  vases  of  perfect  purity  to  hold  the  dews  and 
rains ;  and  what  more  agreeable  bottom  can  we 
look  to  than  this,  which  the  earliest  sun  and  moist 
ure  had  tinged  green  ?  I  see  an  early  grasshopper 
drowning  in  one  ;  it  looks  like  a  fate  to  be  envied : 
April  wells  call  them,  vases  clean,  as  if  enamelled. 
What  wells  can  be  more  charming?  You  almost 
envy  the  wood-frogs  and  toads  that  hop  amid  such 
gems  as  fungi,  some  pure  and  bright  enough  for  a 
breastpin.  Out  of  every  crevice  between  the  dead 
leaves  oozes  some  vehicle  of  color,  the  unspent 
wealth  of  the  year  which  Nature  is  now  casting 
forth,  as  if  it  were  only  to  empty  herself.  And, 
now  to  your  surprise,  these  ditches  are  crowded 
with  millions  of  little  stars  (Aster  Tradescanti). 
Call  them  travellers'  thoughts.  What  green,  herba 
ceous,  graminivorous  thoughts  the  wood-frog  must 
have  !  I  wish  that  my  thoughts  were  as  reasonable 
as  his." 

"  I  notice  many  little,  pale-brown,  dome-shaped 
puff-balls,  puckered  to  a  centre  beneath,  which 
emit  their  dust:  when  you  pinch  them,  a  smoke- 
like,  brown  dust  (snuff-colored)  issues  from  the 
orifice  at  their  top,  like  smoke  from  a  chimne}^.  It 
is  so  fine  and  light  that  it  rises  into  the  air  and  ie 


88  THOEEAU. 

wafted  away  like  smoke.  They  are  low,  oriental 
domes  or  mosques,  sometimes  crowded  together  in 
nests  like  a  collection  of  humble  cottages  on  the 
moor,  in  the  coal-pit  or  Numidian  style.  For  there 
is  suggested  some  humble  hearth  beneath,  from 
which  this  smoke  comes  up,  as  it  were,  the  homes 
of  slugs  and  crickets.  Amid  the  low  and  wither 
ing  grass,  their  resemblance  to  rude,  dome-shaped 
cottages  where  some  humble  but  everlasting  life 
is  lived,  pleases  me  not  a  little,  and  their  smoke 
ascends  between  the  legs  of  the  herds  and  the 
traveller.  I  imagine  a  hearth  and  pot,  and  some 
snug  but  humble  family  passing  its  Sunday  evening 
beneath  each  one.  I  locate  there  at  once  all  that 
is  simple  and  admirable  in  human  life  ;  there  is  no 
virtue  which  their  roofs  exclude.  I  imagine  with 
what  faith  and  contentment  I  could  come  home  to 
them  at  evening." 

Thus  social  is  Nature,  if  her  lover  bring  a  friendly 
heart.  The  love  of  beauty  and  truth  which  can 
light  and  cheer  its  possessor,  not  only  in  youth  and 
health,  but  to  the  verge  of  the  abyss,  walked 
abroad  with  our  Walden  naturalist ;  for  Nature 
never  did  betray  the  heart  that  loved  her.  To 
be  faithful  in  few  things,  to  possess  your  soul  in 
peace  and  make  the  best  use  of  the  one  talent,  is 
deemed  an  acceptable  offering,  —  omne  devotum  pro 
siynifico. 


SPUING  AND  AUTUMN.  89  ; 

"  I  am  a  stranger  in  your  towns ;  I  can  winter 
more  to  my  mind  amid  the  shrub-oaks ;  I  have 
made  arrangements  to  stay  with  them.  The  shrub- 
oak,  lowly,  loving  the  earth  and  spreading  over  it, 
tough,  thick-leaved  ;  leaves  firm  and  sound  in  win 
ter,  and  rustling  like  leather  shields ;  leaves  firm 
and  wholesome,  clear  and  smooth  to  the  touch. 
Tough  to  support  the  snow,  not  broken  down  by 
it,  well-nigh  useless  to  man,  a  sturdy  phalanx  hard 
to  break  through,  product  of  New  England's  sur 
face,  bearing  many  striped  acorns.  Well-tanned 
leather-color  on  the  one  side,  sun-tanned,  color  of 
colors,  color  of  the  cow  and  the  deer,  silver-downy 
beneath,  turned  toward  the  late  bleached  and  rus 
set  fields.  What  are  acanthus  leaves  and  the  rest 
to  this,  emblem  of  my  winter  condition  ?  I  love 
and  could  embrace  the  shrub-oak  with  its  scaly 
garment  of  leaves  rising  above  the  snow,  lowly 
whispering  to  me,  akin  to  winter  thoughts  and  sun 
sets  and  to  all  virtue.  Rigid  as  iron,  clear  as  the 
atmosphere,  hardy  as  virtue,  innocent  and  sweet  as 
a  maiden,  is  the  shrub-oak.  I  felt  a  positive  yearn 
ing  to  one  bush  this  afternoon.  There  was  a  match 
found  for  me  at  last,  —  I  fell  in  love  with  a  shrub- 
oak.  Low,  robust,  hardy,  indigenous,  well-known 
to  the  striped  squirrel  and  the  partridge  and  rabbit, 
what  is  Peruvian  bark  to  your  bark  !  How  many 
rents  I  owe  to  you,  how  many  eyes  put  out,  how 


90  THOREAU. 

many  bleeding  fingers.  How  many  shrub-oak 
patches  I  have  been  through,  winding  my  way, 
bending  the  twigs  aside,  guiding  myself  by  the 
sun  over  hills  and  valleys  and  plains,  resting  in 
clear  grassy  spaces.  I  love  to  go  through  a  patch 
of  scrub-oaks  in  a  bee  line,  —  where  you  tear  your 
clothes  and  put  your  eyes  out." 

"  Sometimes  I  would  rather  get  a  transient 
glimpse,  a  side  view  of  a  thing,  than  stand  front 
ing  to  it,  as  these  polypody s.  The  object  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  as  I  went  by,  haunts  my  thought  a 
long  time,  is  infinitely  suggestive,  and  I  do  not 
care  to  front  it  and  scrutinize  it ;  for  I  know  that 
the  thing  that  really  concerns  me  is  not  there,  but 
in  my  relation  to  that.  That  is  a  mere  reflecting 
surface.  Its  influence  is  sporadic,  wafted  through 
the  air  to  me.  Do  you  imagine  its  fruit  to  stick  to 
the  back  of  its  leaf  all  winter?  At  this  season, 
polypody  is  in  the  air.  My  thoughts  are  with  them 
a  long  time  after  my  body  has  passed.  It  is  the 
cheerful  community  of  the  polypodys :  are  not  wood- 
frogs  the  philosophers  who  walk  in  these  groves  ?  " 

As  in  winter  :  "  How  completely  a  load  of  hay 
revives  the  memory  of  past  summers.  Summer  in 
us  is  only  a  little  dried  like  it."  The  foul  flanks 
of  the  cattle  remind  him  how  early  it  still  is  in  the 
spring.  He  knows  the  date  by  his  garment,  and 
says  on  the  twenty-eighth  of  April,  "  The  twenty- 


SPRING  AND  AUTUMN.  91 

seventh  and  to-day  are  weather  for  a  half-thick 
single  coat.  This  first  off-coat  warmth."  The 
first  week  of  May,  "  The  shadow  of  the  cliff  is  like 
a  dark  pupil  on  the  side  of  the  hill.  That  cliff  and 
its  shade  suggests  dark  eyes  and  eyelashes  and 
overhanging  brows.  It  is  a  leafy  mist  throughout 
the  forest."  And  with  a  rare  comparison,  "  The 
green  of  the  new  grass  the  last  week  in  April  has 
the  regularity  of  a  parapet  or  rampart  to  a  fortress. 
It  winds  along  the  irregular  lines  of  tussucks  like 
the  wall  of  China  over  hill  and  dale.  As  I  am 
measuring  along  the  Marlboro'  road,  a  fine  little 
blue-slate  butterfly  fluttered  over  the  chain.  Even 
its  feeble  strength  was  required  to  fetch  the  year 
about.  How  daring,  even  rash,  Nature  appears, 
who  sends  out  butterflies  so  early.  Sardanapalus- 
like,  she  loves  extremes  and  contrasts."  (It  was 
this  day,  April  28,  1856,  that  Thoreau  first  defi 
nitely  theorized  the  succession  of  forest  trees.) 
The  sight  and  sound  of  the  first  humming-bird 
made  him  think  he  was  in  the  tropics,  in  Demerara 
or  Maracaibo.  Or  shall  we  take  an  autumn  walk, 
the  first  September  week  ? 

"  Nature  improves  this,  her  last  opportunity,  to 
empty  her  lap  of  flowers. 

"  I  turn  Anthony's  corner.  It  is  an  early  Sep 
tember  afternoon,  melting,  warm,  and  sunny  ;  the 
thousand  of  grasshoppers  leaping  before  you  reflect 


92  THOREAU. 

gleams  of  light.  A  little  distance  off,  the  field  is 
yellowed  with  a  Xerxean  army  of  Solidago  nemo- 
ralis  (gray  golden-rod)  between  me  and  the  sun. 
It  spreads  its  legions  over  the  dry  plains  now,  as 
soldiers  muster  in  the  fall,  fruit  of  August  and 
September  sprung  from  the  sun-dust.  The  fields 
and  hills  appear  in  their  yellow  uniform  (its  re 
curved  standard,  a  little  more  than  a  foot  high), 
marching  to  the  holy  land,  a  countless  host  of  cru 
saders.  The  earth-song  of  the  cricket  comes  up 
through  all,  and  ever  and  anon  the  hot  z-irig  of  the 
locust  is  heard.  The  dry,  deserted  fields  are  one 
mass  of  yellow  like  a  color  shoved  to  one  side  on 
Nature's  palette.  You  literally  wade  in  flowers 
knee-deep,  and  now  the  moist  banks  and  low  bot^ 
toms  are  beginning  to  be  abundantly  sugared  with 
the  Aster  Tradescanti.  How  ineffectual  is  the  note 
of  a  bird  now!  We  hear  it  as  if  we  heard  it  not 
and  forget  it  immediately.  The  blackbirds  were 
pruning  themselves  and  splitting  their  throats  in 
vain,  trying  to  sing  as  the  other  day  ;  all  the  mel 
ody  flew  off  in  splinters.  By  the  first  week  of 
October,  the  hue  of  maturity  has  come  even  to 
that  fine,  silver-topped,  feathery  grass,  two  or  three 
feet  high  in  clumps,  on  dry  places ;  I  am  riper  for 
thought  too.  Every  thing,  all  fruits  and  leaves, 
even  the  surfaces  of  stone  and  stubble,  are  all  ripe 
in  this  air.  The  chickadees  of  late  have  winter 


SPUING  AND  AUTUMN.  93 

ways,  flocking  after  you."  "  Birds  generally  wear 
the  russet  dress  of  nature  at  this  season  (Novem 
ber  7),  they  have  their  fall  no  less  than  the  plants ; 
the  bright  tints  depart  from  their  foliage  of  feath 
ers,  and  they  flit  past  like  withered  leaves  in  rust 
ling  flocks.  The  sparrow  is  a  withered  leaf.  When 
the  flower  season  is  over,  when  the  great  company 
of  flower-seekers  have  ceased  their  search,  the 
fringed  gentian  raises  its  blue  face  above  the  with 
ering  grass  beside  the  brooks  for  a  moment,  having 
at  the  eleventh  hour  made  up  its  mind  to  join  the 
planet's  floral  exhibition.  Pieces  of  water  are 
now  reservoirs  of  dark  indigo  ;  as  for  the  dry  oak- 
leaves,  all  winter  is  their  fall." 

"  The  tinkling  notes  of  goldfinches  and  bobo 
links  which  we  hear  in  August  are  of  one  charac 
ter,  and  peculiar  to  the  season.  They  are  not 
voluminous  flowers,  but  rather  nuts  of  sound, 
ripened  seeds  of  sound.  It  is  the  tinkling  of 
ripened  grains  in  Nature's  basket ;  like  the  sparkle 
on  water,  a  sound  produced  by  friction  on  the 
crisped  air.  The  cardinals  (Lobelia  cardinali*) 
are  fluviatile,  and  stand  along  some  river  or  brook 
like  myself.  It  is  the  three  o'clock  of  the  year 
when  the  Itidens  Beckii  (water  marigold)  begins 
to  prevail.  By  mid-October,  the  year  is  acquiring 
a  grizzly  look  from  the  climbing  mikania,  golden- 
rods,  and  Andropogon  scoparius  (purple  wood- 


94  THOEEAU. 

grass).  And  painted  ducks,  too,  often  come  to 
sail  and  float  amid  the  painted  leaves.  Surely, 
while  geese  fly  overhead,  we  can  live  here  as  con 
tentedly  as  they  do  at  York  factory  or  Hudson's 
Bay.  We  shall  perchance  be  as  well  provisioned 
and  have  as  good  society  as  they.  Let  us  be  of 
good  cheer  then,  and  expect  the  annual  vessel  which 
brings  the  spring  to  us,  without  fail.  Goodwin, 
the  one-eyed  Ajax,  and  other  fishermen,  who  sit 
thus  alone  from  morning  to  night  at  this  season, 
must  be  greater  philosophers  than  the  shoemakers. 
The  streets  are  thickly  strewn  Avith  elm  and  but 
ton-wood  and  other  leaves,  feuille-morte  color. 
And  what  is  acorn  color  ?  Is  it  not  as  good  as 
chestnut  ?  Now  (the  second  November  week) 
for  twinkling  light  reflected  from  unseen  windows 
in  the  horizon  in  early  twilight.  The  frost  seems 
as  if  the  earth  was  letting  off  steam  after  the  sum 
mer's  work  is  over.  If  you  do  feel  any  fire  at  this 
season  out  of  doors,  you  may  depend  upon  it,  it 
is  your  own.  November,  eat-heart,  —  is  that  the 
name  of  it  ?  A  man  will  eat  his  heart  in  this,  if 
in  any  month.  The  old  she- wolf  is  nibbling  at 
your  very  extremities.  The  frozen  ground  eating 
away  the  soles  of  your  shoes  is  only  typical  of  the 
Nature  that  gnaws  your  heart.  Going  through  a 
partly  frozen  meadow  near  the  river,  scraping  the 
sweet-gale,  I  am  pleasantly  scented  with  its  odorif- 


SPUING  AND  AUTUMN.  05 

erous  fruit.  The  smallest  (Aspleniurn)  ferns  under 
a  shelving  rock,  pinned  on  rosette- wise,  looked  like 
the  head  of  a  breast-pin.  The  rays  from  the  bare 
twigs  across  the  pond  are  bread  and  cheese  to 
me.  ...  I  see  to  the  bone.  See  those  bare 
birches  prepared  to  stand  the  winter  through  on 
the  bare  hill-side.  They  never  sing,  c  What  is  this 
dull  town  to  me  ?  '  The  maples  skirting  the  meadow 
(in  dense  phalanxes)  look  like  light  infantry  ad 
vanced  for  a  swamp  fight.  Ah !  dear  November, 
ye  must  be  sacred  to  the  Nine,  surely." 

"  If  you  would  know  what  are  my  winter 
thoughts,  look  for  them  in  the  partridge's  crop. 
The  winter,  cold  and  bound  out  as  it  is,  is  thrown 
to  us  like  a  bone  to  a  famishing  dog.  I  go  bud 
ding  like  a  partridge.  Some  lichenous  thoughts 
still  adhere  to  us,  our  cold  immortal  evergreens. 
Even  our  experience  is  something  like  wintering  in 
the  pack,  and  we  assume  the  spherical  form  of  the 
marmot.  We  have  peculiarly  long  and  clear  sil 
very  twilights,  morn  and  eve,  with  a  stately  with 
drawn  after  redness,  —  it  is  indigoy  along  the 
horizon.  .  .  .  Wachusett  looks  like  a  right  whale 
over  our  bow,  ploughing  the  continent  with  his 
flukes  well  down.  He  has  a  vicious  look,  as 
if  he  had  a  harpoon  in  him.  All  waters  now  seen 
through  the  leafless  trees  are  blue  as  indigo,  reser 
voirs  of  dark  indigo  among  the  general  russet,  red- 


96  TEOREAU. 

dish-brown,  and  gray.  I  rode  home  on  a  hay 
rigging  with  a  boy  who  had  been  collecting  a  load 
of  dry  leaves  for  the  hog-pen,  —  this,  the  third  or 
fourth ;  two  other  boys  asked  leave  to  ride,  with 
four  large,  empty  box-traps,  which  they  were  bring 
ing  home  from  the  woods.  They  had  caught  five 
rabbits  this  fall,  baiting  with  an  apple.  Some  fine 
straw-colored  grasses,  as  delicate  as  the  down  on 
a  young  man's  cheek,  still  rise  above  this  crusted 
snow.  I  look  over  my  shoulder  upon  an  arctic 
scene.  .  .  .  The  winters  come  now  as  fast  as 
snow-flakes ;  there  is  really  but  one  season  in  our 
hearts.  The  snow  is  like  a  uniform  white  napkin 
in  many  fields.  I  see  the  old,  pale-faced  farmer 
walking  beside  his  team  (in  the  sled),  with  con 
tented  thoughts,  for  the  five  thousandth  time.  This 
drama  every  day  in  the  streets.  This  is  the  the 
atre  I  go  to." 


PHILOSOPHY.  97 


CHAPTER  VII. 

PHILOSOPHY. 

"  La  genie  c'est  la  patience."  —  BUFFON. 

"  As  be  had  kyked  on  the  newe  mone."  — CHAUCEB. 

"  TT  was  summer,  and  now  again  it  is  winter. 
Nature  loves  this  rhyme  so  well  that  she  never 
tires  of  repeating  it.  So  sweet  and  wholesome  is 
the  winter,  so  simple  and  moderate,  so  satisfactory 
and  perfect,  that  her  children  will  never  weary  of 
it.  What  a  poem  !  an  epic,  in  blank  verse,  inscribed 
with  uncounted  tinkling  rhymes.  It  is  solid  beauty. 
It  has  been  subjected  to  the  vicissitudes  of  a  million 
years  of  the  gods,  and  not  a  single  superfluous 
ornament  remains.  The  severest  and  coldest  of 
the  immortal  critics  shot  their  arrows  at  and  pruned 
it,  till  it  cannot  be  amended.  We  might  expect 
to  find  in  the  snows  the  footprint  of  a  life  supe 
rior  to  our  own ;  of  which  no  zoology  takes  cogni 
zance  ;  a  life  which  pursued  does  not  earth  itself. 
The  hollows  look  like  a  glittering  shield  set  round 
with  brilliants,  as  we  go  south-westward  through 
the  Cassandra  swamps  toward  the  declining  sun, 
in  the  midst  of  which  we  walked.  That  beautiful 

5  G 


98  TEOREAU. 

frost-work,  which  so  frequently  in  winter  morn 
ings  is  seen  bristling  about  the  throat  of  every 
breathing-hole  in  the  earth's  surface,  is  the  frozen 
breath  of  the  earth  upon  its  beard.  I  knew  what 
it  was  by  my  own  experience.  Some  grass  culms 
eighteen  inches  or  two  feet  high,  which  nobody 
noticed,  are  an  inexhaustible  supply  of  slender  ice 
wands  set  in  the  snow.  The  waving  lines  within 
the  marsh-ice  look  sometimes  just  like  some  white, 
shaggy  wolf-skin.  The  fresh,  bright  chestnut  fruit 
of  some  lichens,  glistening  in  moist  winter  days, 
brings  life  and  immortality  to  light.  The  sight  of 
the  masses  of  yellow  hastate  leaves  and  flower- 
buds  of  the  yellow  lily,  already  four  or  six  inches 
long  at  the  bottom  of  the  river,  reminds  me  that 
Nature  is  prepared  for  an  infinity  of  springs  yet. 
How  interesting  a  few  clean,  dry  weeds  on  the 
shore  a  dozen  rods  off,  seen  distinctly  against  the 
smooth  reflecting  water  between  ice  ! 

"  The  surface  of  the  snow  everywhere  in  the 
fields,  where  it  is  hard  blown,  has  a  fine  grain  with 
low  shelves,  like  a  slate  stone  that  does  not  split 
well ;  also,  there  are  some  shell-like  drifts,  more 
than  once  round.  Over  the  frozen  river  only  the 
bridges  are  seen  peeping  out  from  time  to  time 
like  a  dry  eyelid.  The  damp,  driving  snow-flakes, 
when  we  turned  partly  round  and  faced  them,  hurt 
our  eyeballs  as  if  they  had  been  dry  scales  :  there 


PHILOSOPHY.  99 

are  plenty  of  those  shell-like  drifts  along  the  south 
sides  of  the  walls  now,  and  countless  perforations, 
sometimes  like  the  prows  of  vessels,  or  the  folds 
of  a  white  napkin  or  counterpane  dropped  over  a 
bonneted  head.  Snow-flakes  are  the  wheels  of 
the  storm  chariots,  the  wreck  of  chariot  wheels 
after  a  battle  in  the  skies  ;  these  glorious  spangles, 
the  sweeping  of  heaven's  floor.  And  they  all  sing, 
melting  as  they  sing,  of  the  mysteries  of  the  number 
six,  six,  six.  He  takes  up  the  water  of  the  sea  in 
his  hand,  leaving  the  salt ;  he  disperses  it  in 
mist  through  the  skies  ;  he  recollects  and  sprinkles 
it  like  grain  in  six-rayed  snowy  stars  over  the  earth, 
there  to  lie  till  it  dissolves  its  bonds  again. 

"  I  see  great  thimbleberry  bushes,  rising  above 
the  snow  with  still  a  rich,  rank  bloom  on  them  as 
in  July,  —  hypsethral  mildew,  elysian  fungus  !  To 
see  the  bloom  on  a  thimbleberry  thus  lasting  into 
mid-winter !  What  a  salve  that  would  make  col 
lected  and  boxed !  I  should  not  be  ashamed  to 
have  a  shrub-oak  for  my  coat-of-arrns  ;  I  would 
fain  have  been  wading  through  the  woods  and 
fields  and  conversing  with  the  sane  snow.  Might 
I  aspire  to  praise  the  moderate  nymph,  Nature ! 
I  must  be  like  her,  —  moderate.  Who  shall  criti 
cise  that  companion?  It  is  like  the  hone  to  the 
knife.  There  I  get  my  underpinnings  laid  and 
repaired,  cemented  and  levelled.  There  is  my 


100  THOREAU. 

country  club  ;  we   dine  at  the  sign  of  the  shrub- 
oak,  the  new  Albion  House. 

"  A  little  flock  of  red-polls  (JLinaria  minor)  is 
busy  picking  the  seeds  of  the  pig-weed  in  the 
garden,  this  driving  snow-storm.  Well  may  the 
tender  buds  attract  us  at  this  season,  no  less  than 
partridges,  for  they  are  the  hope  of  the  year, 
the  spring  rolled  up  ;  the  summer  is  all  packed 
in  them.  Again  and  again  I  congratulate  myself 
on  my  so-called  poverty.  How  can  we  spare  to 
be  abroad  in  the  morning  red ;  to  see  the  forms 
of  the  leafless  eastern  trees  against  the  clear  sky, 
and  hear  the  cocks  crow,  when  a  thin  low  mist 
hangs  over  the  ice  and  frost  in  meadows  ?  When 
I  could  sit  in  a  cold  chamber,  muffled  in  a  cloak, 
each  evening  till  Thanksgiving  time,  warmed  by 
my  own  thoughts,  the  world  was  not  so  much  with 
me.  When  I  have  only  a  rustling  oak-leaf,  or  the 
faint  metallic  cheep  of  a  tree-sparrow,  for  variety 
in  my  winter  walk,  my  life  becomes  continent  and 
sweet  as  the  kernel  of  a  nut.  Show  me  a  man 
who  consults  his  genius,  and  you  have  shown  me 
a  man  who  cannot  be  advised.  .  .  .  Going  along 
the  Nut  Meadow,  or  Jimmy  Miles  road,  when  I 
see  the  sulphur  lichens  on  the  rails  brightening 
with  the  moisture,  I  feel  like  studying  them  again 
as  a  relisher  or  tonic,  to  make  life  go  down  and 
digest  well,  as  we  use  pepper  and  vinegar  and 


PHILOSOPHY.  101 

salads.  They  are  a  sort  of  winter-greens,  which 
we  gather  and  assimilate  with  our  eyes.  The  flat 
tened  boughs  of  the  white-pine  rest  stratum  above 
stratum  like  a  cloud,  a  green  mackerel-sky,  hardly 
reminding  me  of  the  concealed  earth  so  far  beneath. 
They  are  like  a  flaky  crust  to  the  earth ;  my  eyes 
nibble  the  piney  sierra  which  makes  the  horizon's 
edge,  as  a  hungry  man  nibbles  a  cracker.  .  .  . 
That  bird  (the  hawk)  settles  with  confidence  on 
the  white-pine  top,  and  not  upon  your  weather 
cock  ;  that  bird  will  not  be  poultry  of  yours,  lays 
no  eggs  for  you,  for  ever  hides  its  nest.  Though 
willed  or  wild,  it  is  not  wilful  in  its  wildness.  The 
unsympathizing  man  regards  the  wildness  of  some 
animals,  their  strangeness  to  him,  as  a  sin.  No 
hawk  that  soars  and  steals  our  poultry  is  wilder 
than  genius  ;  and  none  is  more  persecuted,  or  above 
persecution.  It  can  never  be  poet-laureate,  to  say 
"  pretty  Poll,"  and  "  Poll  want  a  cracker." 

In  these  sayings  may  his  life  best  be  sought.  It 
is  an  autobiography  with  the  genuine  brand,  — 
it  is  unconscious.  How  he  was  affected  by  the 
seasons,  who  walked  with  them  as  a  familiar 
friend,  thinking  thus  aloud  the  thoughts  which 
they  brought ;  associations  in  linked  sweetness 
long  drawn  out ;  dear  and  delightful  as  memories 
or  hopes  !  He  had  few  higher  sources  of  inspira 
tion  than  night,  and  having  given  a  prayer  of  his 


102  THOSE AU. 

to  the  moon,  see  what  one  evening  furnishes :  it 
is  the  first  week  in  September. 

44  The  air  is  very  still,  a  fine  sound  of  crickets, 
but  not  loud.  The  woods  and  single  trees  are 
heavier  masses  than  in  the  spring,  — -  night  has  more 
allies.  I  hear  only  a  tree-toad  or  sparrow  singing 
at  long  intervals,  as  in  spring.  Now  in  the  fields 
I  see  the  white  streak  of  the  neottia  in  the  white 
twilight.  The  whippoorwill  sings  far  off.  I  hear 
the  sound  from  time  to  time  of  a  leaping  fish  or 
a  frog,  or  a  muskrat  or  a  turtle.  I  know  not  how 
it  is  that  this  universal  cricket's  creak  should 
sound  thus  regularly  intermittent,  as  if  for  the 
most  part  they  fell  in  with  one  another  and  creaked 
in  time,  making  a  certain  pulsing  sound,  a  sort  of 
breathing  or  panting  of  all  nature.  You  sit  twenty 
feet  above  the  still  river,  see  the  sheeny  pads  and 
the  moon  and  some  bare  tree-tops  in  the  distant 
horizon.  Those  bare  tree-tops  add  greatly  to  the 
wildness. 

44  Lower  down  I  see  the  moon  in  the  water  as 
bright  as  in  the  heavens,  only  the  water-bugs  dis 
turb  its  disk,  and  now  I  catch  a  faint  glassy  glare 
from  the  whole  river  surf  ace,  which  before  was  sim 
ply  dark.  This  is  set  in  a  frame  of  double  darkness 
in  the  east ;  i.e.,  the  reflected  shore  of  woods  and 
hills  and  the  reality,  the  shadow  and  the  substance 
bi-partite,  answering  to  each.  I  see  the  northern 


PHILOSOPHY.  103 

lights  over  my  shoulder  to  remind  me  of  the  Esqui 
maux,  and  that  they  are  still  my  contemporaries 
on  this  globe  ;  that  they,  too,  are  taking  their  walks 
on  another  part  of  the  planet,  in  pursuit  of  seals 
perchance.  It  was  so  soft  and  velvety  a  light  as 
contained  a  thousand  placid  days  recently  put  to 
rest  in  the  bosom  of  the  water.  So  looked  the 
North-twin  Lake  in  the  Maine  woods.  It  reminds 
me  of  placid  lakes  in  the  mid-noon  of  Indian 
summer  days,  but  yet  more  placid  and  civilized, 
suggesting  a  higher  cultivation,  as  wildness  ever 
does,  which  seons  of  summer  days  have  gone  to 
make,  like  a  summer  day  seen  far  away.  All  the 
effects  of  sunlight,  with  a  softer  tone,  and  all  the 
stillness  of  the  water  and  air  superadded,  and 
the  witchery  of  the  hour.  What  gods  are  they 
that  require  so  fair  a  vase  of  gleaming  water  to 
their  prospect  in  the  midst  of  the  wild  woods 
by  night? 

"  Else  why  this  beauty  allotted  to  night,  a  gem 
to  sparkle  in  the  zone  of  Nox?  They  are  strange 
gods  now  out ;  methinks  their  names  are  not  in 
any  mythology.  The  light  that  is  in  night,  a  smile 
as  in  a  dream  on  the  face  of  the  sleeping  lake, 
enough  light  to  show  what  we  see,  any  more  would 
obscure  these  objects.  I  am  not  advertised  of  any 
deficiency  of  light.  The  faint  sounds  of  birds 
dreaming  aloud  in  the  night,  the  fresh  cool  air  and 


104  TEOEEAU. 

sound  of  the  wind  rushing  over  the  rocks  remind 
me  of  the  tops  of  mountains.  In  this  faint,  hoary 
light  all  fields  are  like  a  mossy  rock  and  remote 
from  the  cultivated  plains  of  day.  It  is  all  one 
with  Caucasus,  the  slightest  hill-pasture. 

"  Now  the  fire  in  the  north  increases  wonder 
fully,  not  shooting  up  so  much  as  creeping  along, 
like  a  fire  on  the  mountains  of  the  north,  seen  afar 
in  the  night.  The  Hyperborean  gods  are  burning 
brush,  and  it  spread,  and  all  the  hoes  in  heaven 
couldn't  stop  it.  It  spread  from  west  to  east,  over 
the  crescent  hill.  Like  a  vast  fiery  worm  it  lay 
across  the  northern  sky,  broken  into  many  pieces ; 
and  each  piece,  with  rainbow  colors  skirting  it, 
strove  to  advance  itself  towards  the  east,  worm- 
like  on  its  own  annular  muscles.  It  has  spread 
into  the  choicest  wood-lots  of  Valhalla ;  now  it 
shoots  up  like  a  single,  solitary  watch-fire,  or 
burning  brush,  or  where  it  ran  up  a  pine-tree  like 
powder,  and  still  it  continues  to  gleam  here  and 
there  like  a  fat  stump  in  the  burning,  and  is  re 
flected  in  the  water.  And  now  I  see  the  gods  by 
great  exertions  have  got  it  under,  and  the  stars 
have  come  out  without  fear  in  peace.  Though  no 
birds  sing,  the  crickets  vibrate  their  shrill  and 
stridulous  cymbals  in  the  alders  of  the  cause 
way,  those  minstrels  especially  engaged  for  night's 
quire." 


PHILOSOPHY.  105 

He  saw  the  great  in  the  little :  the  translucent 
leaves  of  the  Andromeda  calyculata  seemed  in 
January,  with  their  soft  red,  more  or  less  brown, 
as  he  walked  towards  the  sun,  like  cathedral  win 
dows  ;  and  he  spoke  of  the  cheeks  and  temples  of 
the  soft  crags  of  the  sphagnum.  The  hubs  on 
birches  are  regular  cones,  as  if  they  might  be  vol 
canoes  in  outline  ;  and  the  small  cranberries  occupy 
some  little  valley  a  foot  or  two  over,  between  two 
mountains  of  sphagnum  (that  dense,  cushion-like 
moss  that  grows  in  swamps).  He  says  distant 
lightning  is  like  veins  in  the  eye.  Of  that  excel 
lent  nut,  the  chestnut,  "  the  whole  upper  slopes  of 
the  nuts  are  covered  with  the  same  hoary  wool  as 
the  points."  A  large,  fresh  stone-heap,  eight  or 
ten  inches  above  water,  is  quite  sharp,  like  Tene- 
riffe.  These  comparisons  to  him  were  realities,  not 
sports  of  the  pen :  to  elevate  the  so-called  little 
into  the  great,  with  him,  was  genius.  In  that 


sense  he  was  no  humorist*  He  sees  a  gull's  wings, 
that  seem  almost  regular  semicircles,  like  the  new 
moon.  Some  of  the  bevelled  roofs  of  the  houses 
on  Cape  Ann  are  so  nearly  flat  that  they  reminded 
him  of  the  low  brows  of  monkeys.  The  enlarged 
sail  of  the  boat  suggests  a  new  power,  like  a  Gre 
cian  god.  .  .  .  Ajacean.  The  boat  is  like  a  plough 
drawn  by  a  winged  bull.  He  asks,  "  Are  there  no 
purple  reflections  from  the  culms  of  thought  in  my 


106  THOREAU. 

mind  ?  "  thinking  of  the  colors  of  the  poke-stem. 
In  a  shower  he  feels  the  first  drop  strike  the  right 
slope  of  his  nose,  and  run  down  the  ravine  there, 
and  says,  "  Such  is  the  origin  of  rivers,"  and  sees 
a  wave  whose  whole  height,  "from  the  valley  be 
tween  to  the  top,"  was  fifteen  inches.  He  thus 
practically  illustrates  his  faith,  —  how  needless  to 
travel  for  wonders;  they  lie  at  your  feet;  the 
seeing  eye  must  search  intently.  The  Wayland 
bird-stuffer  shoots  a  meadow-hen,  a  Virginia  rail, 
a  stormy  petrel  and  the  little  auk,  in  Sudbury 
\meadows. 

»  He  wished  so  to  live  as  to  derive  his  satisfac 
tions  and  inspirations  from  the  commonest  events, 
every-day  phenomena  ;  so  that  what  his  senses 
hourly  perceived,  his  daily  walk,  the  conversation 
of  his  neighbors,  might  inspire  him ;  and  he 
wished  to  dream  of  no  heaven  but  that  which  lay 
about  him.  Seeing  how  impatient,  how  rampant, 
how  precocious  were  the  osiers  in  early  spring,  he 
utters  the  prayer,  "  May  I  ever  be  in  as  good  spir 
its  as  a  willow.  They  never  say  die."  The  charm 
of  the  journal  must  consist  in  a  certain  greenness, 
thorough  freshness,  and  not  in  maturity.  "  Here, 
I  cannot  afford  to  be  remembering  what  I  said, 
did,  my  scurf  cast  off,  —  but  what  I  am  and  aspire 
to  become."  Those  annoyed  by  his  hardness 
should  remember  that  "  the  flowing  of  the  sap 


PHILOSOPHY.  107 

under  the  dull  rinds  of  the  trees  is  a  tide  which 
few  suspect."  The  same  object  is  ugly  or  beauti 
ful  according  to  the  angle  from  which  you  view  it. 
He  went  to  the  rocks  by  the  pond  in  April  to 
srnell  the  catnep,  and  always  brought  some  home 
for  the  cat,  at  that  season.  To  truly  see  his  char 
acter,  you  must  "  see  with  the  unworn  sides  of 
your  eye."  Once  he  enlarges  a  little  on  an  offer 
he  did  not  accept  of  a  passenger.  He  had  many : 
genial  gentlemen  of  all  sizes  felt  ready  to  walk  or 
sail  with  him,  and  he  usually  accepted  them,  some 
times  two  in  one.  On  this  occasion  he  declines : 

"  This  company  is  obliged  to  make  a  distinction 
between  dead  freight  and  passengers :  I  will  take 
almost  any  amount  of  freight  for  you  cheerfully,  — 
any  thing,  my  dear  sir,  but  yourself.  You  are  a 
heavy  fellow,  but  I  am  well  disposed.  If  you  could 
go  without  going,  then  you  might  go.  There  's 
the  captain's  state-room,  empty  to  be  sure,  and  you 
say  you  could  go  in  the  steerage :  I  know  very 
well  that  only  your  baggage  would  be  dropped 
in  the  steerage,  while  you  would  settle  down  into 
that  vacant  recess.  Why,  I  am  going,  not  staying ; 
I  have  come  on  purpose  to  sail,  to  paddle  away 
from  such  as  you,  and  you  have  waylaid  me  on 
the  shore.  ...  If  I  remember  aright  it  was  only 
on  condition  that  you  were  'asked,  that  you  were  to 
go  with  a  man  one  mile  or  twain. 


108  THOBEAU. 

I  could  better  carry  a  heaped  load  of  meadow  mud 
and  sit  on  the  thole-pins." 

He  believed,  "  We  must  not  confound  man  with 
man.  We  cannot  conceive  of  a  greater  difference 
than  that  between  the  life  of  one  man  and  that  of 
another." 

"  It  is  possible  for  a  man  wholly  to  disappear 
and  be  merged  in  his  manners."  He  thought  a  man 
of  manners  was  an  insect  in  a  tumbler.  But  genius 
had  evanescent  boundaries  like  an  altar  from  which 
incense  rises. 

44  Our  stock  in  life,  our  real  estate,  is  that  amount 
of  thought  which  we  have  had,  and  which  we  have 
thought  out.  The  ground  we  have  thus  created  is 
for  ever  pasturage  for  our  thoughts.  I  am  often 
reminded  that,  if  I  had  bestowed  on  me  the  wealth 
of  Croesus,  my  aims  must  still  be  the  same  and  my 
means  essentially  the  same.  The  art  of  life,  of  a 
poet's  life,  is,  not  having  any  thing  to  do,  to  do 
something.  Improve  the  suggestion  of  each  object 
however  humble,  however  slight  and  transient  the 
provocation  ;  what  else  is  there  to  be  improved  ? 
You  must  try  a  thousand  themes  before  you  find 
the  right  one,  as  nature  makes  a  thousand  acorns 
to  get  one  oak.  Both  for  bodily  and  mental  health 
court  the  present.  Embrace  health  wherever  you 
find  her.  None  but  the*  kind  gods  can  make  me 
sane.  If  only  they  will  let  their  south  wind  blow 


PHILOSOPHY.  109 

on  me  :  I  ask  to  be  melted.  You  can  only  ask  of 
the  metals  to  be  tender  to  the  fire  that  melts  them. 
To  nought  else  can  they  be  tender.  Only  he  can 
be  trusted  with  gifts,  who  can  present  a  face  of 
bronze  to  expectations." 

At  times,  he  asked :  "  Why  does  not  man  sleep 
all  clay  as  well  as  all  night,  it  seems  so  very  easy. 
For  what  is  he  awake?"  "Do  lichens  or  fungi 
grow  on  you?  "  The  luxury  of  wisdom  !  the  lux 
ury  of  virtue  !  are  there  any  intemperate  in  these 
things  ?  "  Oh  such  thin  skins,  such  crockery  as  I 
have  to  deal  with  !  Do  they  not  know  that  I  can 
laugh  ?  "  "  Why  do  the  mountains  never  look  so 
fair  as  from  my  native  fields  ?  "  "  Who  taught 
the  oven-bird  to  conceal  her  nest  ?  "  He  states  a 
familiar  fact,  showing  that  the  notion  of  a  thing 
can  be  taken  for  the  thing,  literally:  "  I  have  con 
vinced  myself  that  I  saw  smoke  issuing  from  the 
chimney  of  a  house,  which  had  not  been  occupied 
for  twenty  years,  —  a  small  bluish,  whitish  cloud, 
instantly  dissipated."  Like  other  scribes,  he  wishes 
he  "  could  buy  at  the  shops  some  kind  of  India-rub 
ber  that  would  rub  out  at  once  all  that  in  my  writing 
which  it  now  costs  me  so  many  perusals,  so  many 
months,  if  not  years,  and  so  much  reluctance  to 
erase"  His  temperament  is  so  moral,  his  least 
observation  will  breed  a  sermon,  or  a  water-worn 
fish  rear  him  to  Indian  heights  of  philosophy : 


110 


THOEEAU. 


"  How  many  springs  shall  I  continue  to  see  the 
common  sucker  (Catostomus  Bostoniensis)  floating 
dead  on  our  river?  Will  not  Nature  select  her 
types  from  a  new  font  ?  The  vignette  of  the  year. 
This  earth  which  is  spread  out  like  a  map  around 
me  is  but  the  lining  of  my  inmost  soul  exposed. 
In  me  is  the  sucker  that  I  see.  No  wholly  extra 
neous  object  can  compel  me  to  recognize  it.  I  am 
guilty  of  suckers.  .  .  .  The  red-bird  which  I  saw 
on  my  companion's  string  on  election-days,  I 
thought  but  the  outmost  sentinel  of  the  wild  im 
mortal  camp,  of  the  wild  and  dazzling  infantry  of 
the  wilderness.  The  red-bird  which  is  the  last  of 
nature  is  but  the  first  of  God.  We  condescend  to 
climb  the  crags  of  earth." 

He  believes  he  is  soothed  by  the  sound  of  the 
rain,  because  he  is  allied  to  the  elements.  The 
sound  sinks  into  his  spirit  as  the  water  into  the 
earth,  reminding  him  of  the  season  when  snow  and 
ice  will  be  no  more.  Hejid vises  you  to  .be.jiQ.tLJn 
haste  amid  your  private  affairs.  Consider  the  tur 
tle  :  a  whole  summer,  June,  July,  and  August  are 
not  too  good,  not  too  much  to  hatch  a  turtle  in. 
Another  of  his  questions  is  :  "  What  kind  of  un 
derstanding  was  there  between  the  mind  that  deter 
mined  that  these  leaves  of  the  black  willow"  should 
hang  on  during  the  winter,  and  that  of  the  worm 
that  fastened  a  few  of  these  leaves  to  its  cocoon  in 


PHILOSOPHY.  Ill 

order  to  disguise  it  ?  "  As  an  answer  may  be  found 
the  following  :  u  It  was  long  ago  in  a  full  senate 
of  all  intellects  determined  how  cocoons  had  best 
be  suspended,  kindred  mind  with  mind  that  admires 
and  approves  decided  it  so.  The  mind  of  the  uni 
verse  which  we  share  has  been  intended  on  each  par 
ticular  point."  Thus  persevering,  —  and,  as  he 
says  of  a  dwelling  on  the  Cape,  he  knocked  all 
round  the  house  at  five  doors  in  succession,  —  so 
at  the  great  out-doors  of  nature,  where  he  was 
accommodated. 

"  Chide  me  not,  laborious  band, 

For  the  idle  flowers  I  brought ; 
Every  aster  in  my  hand 

Goes  home  loaded  with  a  thought." 

His  fineness  of  perceiving,  his  delicacy  of  touch, 
has  rarely  been  surpassed  with  pen  or  pencil,  a 
fineness  as  unpremeditated  as  successful.  For 
him  the  trout  glances  like  a  film  from  side  to  side 
and  under  the  bank.  The  pitch  oozing  from  pine 
loss  is  one  of  the  beautiful  accidents  that  attend 

& 

on  man's  works,  instead  of  a  defilement.  Darby's 
oak  stands  like  an  athlete,  it  is  an  agony  of  strength. 
Its  branches  look  like  stereotyped  gray  lightning 
on  the  sky.  The  lichens  on  the  pine  remind  him 
of  the  forest  warrior  and  his  shield  adhering  to 
him. 

In  spring  he  notices  pewee  days  and  April  show- 


112  THOREAU. 

ers.  The  mountains  are  the  pastures  to  which  he 
drives  his  thoughts,  on  their  20th  of  May.  So  the 
storm  has  its  flashing  van  followed  by  the  long 
dropping  main  body,  with  at  very  long  intervals  an 
occasional  firing  or  skirmishing  in  the  rear,  or  on 
the  flank.  "  The  lightning  like  a  yellow  spring- 
flower  illumines  the  dark  banks  of  the  clouds. 
Some  sestrum  stings  the  cloud  that  she  darts  head 
long  against  the  steeples,  and  bellows  hollowly, 
making  the  earth  tremble.  It  is  the  familiar  note 
of  another  warbler  echoing  amid  the  roofs."  He 
compares  the  low  universal  twittering  of  the  chip- 
birds,  at  daybreak  in  June,  to  the  bursting  bead  on 
the  surface  of  the  uncorked  day.  If  he  wishes  for 
a  hair  for  his  compass-sight,  he  must  go  to  the  sta 
ble  ;  but  the  hair-bird,  with  her  sharp  eyes,  goes  to 
the  road.  He  muses  over  an  ancient  muskrat 
skull  (found  behind  the  wall  of  Adams's  shop) ,  and 
is  amused  with  the  notion  of  what  grists  have  come 
to  this  mill.  Now  the  upper  and  nether  stones  fall 
loosely  apart,  and  the  brain  chamber  where  the 
miller  lodged  is  now  empty  (passing  under  the 
portcullis  of  the  incisors),  and  the  windows  are 
gone.  The  opening  of  the  first  asters,  he  thinks, 
makes  you  fruitfully  meditative  ;  helps  condense 
your  thoughts  like  the  mildews  in  the  afternoon. 
He  is  pretty  sure  to  find  a  plant  which  he  is  shown 
from  abroad  or  hears  of,  or  in  any  way  becomes 


PHILOSOPHY.  113 

interested  in.  The  cry  of  hounds  he  lists  to,  as  it 
were  a  distant  natural  horn  in  the  clear  resonant 
air.  He  says  that  fire  is  the  most  tolerable  third 
party.  When  he  puts  the  hemlock  boughs  on  the 
blaze,  the  rich  salt  crackling  of  its  leaves  is  like 
mustard  to  the  ear,  —  dead  trees  love  the  fire. 
The  distant  white-pines  over  the  Sanguinetto 
seem  to  flake  into  tiers ;  the  whole  tree  looks  like 
an  open  cone.  The  pond  reminds  him,  looking 
from  the  mill-dam,  of  a  weight  wound  up  ;  and 
when  the  miller  raised  the  gate,  what  a  smell  of 
gun-wash  or  sulphur  !  "  I  who  never  partake  of 
the  sacrament  made  the  more  of  it."  The  soli 
tude  of  Truro  is  as  sweet  as  a  flower.  He  drank 
at  every  cooler  spring  in  his  walk  in  a  blazing 
July,  and  loved  to  eye  the  bottom  there,  with  its 
pebbly  Caddis-worm  cases,  or  its  white  worms,  or 
perchance  a  luxurious  frog  cooling  himself  next 
his  nose.  The  squirrel  withdraws  to  his  eye  by 
his  aerial  turnpikes.  "  The  roof  of  a  house  at  a 
distance,  in  March,  is  a  mere  gray  scale,  diamond* 
shape  against  the  side  of  a  hill."  "  If  I  were 
to  be  a  frog-hawk  for  a  month,  I  should  soon  have 
known  something  about  the  frogs."  He  thinks 
most  men  can  keep  a  horse,  or  keep  up  a  certain 
fashionable  style  of  living,  but  few  indeed  can 
keep  up  great  expectations.  He  improves  every 
opportunity  to  go  into  a  grist-mill,  any  excuse  to 

H 


114  THOEEAU. 

see  its  cobweb-tapestry,  such  as  putting  questions 
to  the  miller,  while  his  eye  rests  delighted  in  the 
cobwebs  above  his  head  and  perchance  on  his  hat. 
So  he  walked  and  sang  his  melodies  in  the  pure 
country,  in  the  seclusion  of  the  field.  All  forms 
and  aspects  of  night  and  day  were  glad  and  mem 
orable  to  him,  whose  thoughts  were  as  pure  and 
innocent  as  those  of  a  guileless  maiden.  Shall 
they  not  be  studied  ? 

"  I  will  give  my  son  to  eat 
Best  of  Pan's  immortal  meat, 
Bread  to  eat,  and  juice  to  drink ; 
So  the  thoughts  that  he  shall  think 
Shall  not  be  forms  of  stars,  but  stars, 
Not  pictures  pale,  but  Jove  and  Mars. 

The  Indian  cheer,  the  frosty  skies, 
Rear  purer  wits,  inventive  eyes. 

In  the  wide  thaw  and  ooze  of  wrong 
Adhere  like  this  foundation  strong, 
The  insanity  of  towns  to  stem 
With  simpleness  for  stratagem." 

If  it  is  difficult  (to  some)  to  credit,  it  is  no  less 
certain  that  Thoreau  would  indulge  himself  in  a 
rhapsody,  —  given  the  right  topic,  something  the 
writer  cordially  appreciated.  In  speech  or  with 
the  pen,  the  eloquent  vein  being  touched,  the  spring 
of  discourse  flowed  rapidly,  as  on  this  subject  of  the 
Corner-road :  — 

"Now  I  yearn  for  one  of  those  old,  meandering^ 


PHILOSOPHY.  115 

dry,  uninhabited  roads  which  lead  away  from  towns, 
which  lead  us  away  from  temptation,  which  con 
duct  to  the  outside  of  the  earth  over  its  uppermost 
crust ;  where  you  may  forget  in  what  country  you 
are  travelling ;  where  no  farmer  can  complain  that 
you  are  treading  down  his  grass ;  no  gentleman 
who  has  recently  constructed  a  seat  in  the  country 
that  you  are  trespassing,  on  which  you  can  go  off 
at  half-cock  and  wave  adieu  to  the  village  ;  along 
which  you  may  travel  like  a  pilgrim  going  no- 
whither ;  where  travellers  are  not  often  to  be  met, 
where  my  spirit  is  free,  where  the  walls  and  flow 
ers  are  not  cared  for,  where  your  head  is  more  in 
heaven  than  your  feet  are  on  earth ;  which  have 
long  reaches,  where  you  can  see  the  approaching 
traveller  half  a  mile  off,  and  be  prepared  for  him  ; 
not  so  luxuriant  a  soil  as  to  attract  men ;  some 
stump  and  root  fences,  which  do  not  need  atten 
tion  ;  where  travellers  have  no  occasion  to  stop, 
but  pass  along  and  leave  you  to  your  thoughts ; 
where  it  makes  no  odds  which  way  you  face, 
whether  you  are  going  or  coming,  whether  it  is 
morning  or  evening,  mid-noon  or  midnight ;  where 
earth  is  cheap  enough  by  being  public  ;  where  you 
can  walk  and  think  with  least  obstruction,  there 
being  nothing  to  measure  progress  by ;  where  you 
can  pace  when  your  breast  is  full,  and  cherish  your 
moodiness  j  where  you  are  not  in  false  relations 


116  THOREAU. 

with  men,  are  not  dining  or  conversing  with  them ; 
by  which  you  may  go  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the 
earth. 

"  Sometimes  it  is  some  particular  half-dozen  rods 
which  I  wish  to  find  myself  pacing  over,  as  where' 
certain  airs  blow,  there  my  life  will  come  to  me ; 
methinks,  like  a  hunter,  I  lie  in  wait  for  it.  When 
I  am  against  this  bare  promonotory  of  a  huckleberry 
hill,  then  forsooth  my  thoughts  will  expand.  Is 
it  some  influence  as  a  vapor  which  exhales  from 
the  ground,  or  something  in  the  gales  which  blow 
there,  or  in  all  things  there  brought  together  agree 
ably  to  my  spirit?  The  walls  must  not  be  too 
high,  imprisoning  me,  but  low,  with  numerous 
gaps.  The  trees  must  not  be  too  numerous  nor 
the  hills  too  near,  bounding  the  view ;  nor  the  soil 
too  rich,  attracting  the  attention  to  the  earth.  It 
must  simply  be  the  way  and  the  life, — a  way  that 
was  never  known  to  be  repaired,  nor  to  need  repair, 
within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant.  I 
cannot  walk  habitually  in  those  ways  that  are  likely 
to  be  repaired,  for  sure  it  was  the  devil  only  that 
wore  them ;  never  by  the  heel  of  thinkers  (of 
thought)  were  they  worn.  The  saunterer  wears 
out  no  road,  even  though  he  travel  on  it,  and 
therefore  should  pay  no  highway  (or  rather  low- 
way')  tax  ;  he  may  be  taxed  to  construct  a  higher 
way  than  that  men  travel.  A  way  which  no  geese 


PHILOSOPHY.  117 

defile  or  hiss  along  it,  but  only  sometimes  their 
wild  brethren  fly  far  overhead  ;  which  the  kingbird 
and  the  swallow  twitter  over,  and  the  song-sparrow 
sings  on  its  rails  ;  where  the  small  red  butterfly 
is  at  home  on  the  yarrow,  and  no  boy  threatens  it 
with  imprisoning  hat,  —  there  I  can  walk  and 
stalk  and  plod.  Which  nobody  but  Jonas  Potter 
travels  beside  me  ;  where  no  cow  but  his  is  tempted 
to  linger  for  the  herbage  by  its  side ;  where  the 
guideboard  is  fallen,  and  now  the  hand  points  to 
heaven  significantly,  to  a  Sudbury  and  Marlboro' 
in  the  skies.  That 's  a  road  I  can  travel,  that 
the  particular  Sudbury  I  am  bound  for,  six  miles 
an  hour,  or  two,  as  you  please  ;  and  few  there  be 
that  enter  therein.  Here  I  can  walk  and  recover 
the  lost  child  that  I  am,  without  any  ringing  of  a 
bell.  Where  there  was  nothing  ever  discovered 
to  detain  a  traveller,  but  all  went  through  about 
their  business ;  where  I  never  passed  "  the  time 
of  day"  with  any, — indifferent  to  me  were  the 
arbitrary  divisions  of  time ;  where  Tullus  Hos- 
tilius  might  have  disappeared,  at  any  rate  has 
never  been  seen,  —  the  road  to  the  Corner ! 

"  The  ninety  and  nine  acres  you  go  through  to 
get  there,  —  I  would  rather  see  it  again,  though  I 
saw  it  this  morning,  than  Gray's  Churchyard.  The 
road  whence  you  may  hear  a  stake-driver,  or  whip- 
poorwill,  a  quail,  in  a  midsummer  day.  Oh,  yes  I 


118  THOEEAU. 

a  quail  comes  nearest  to  the  Gum-c  bird  heard 
there.  Where  it  would  not  be  sport  for  a  sports 
man  to  go  (and  the  Mayweed  looks  up  in  my  face 
not  .there).  The  pale  lobelia  and  the  Canada 
snap-dragon,  a  little  hardback  and  meadow-sweet, 
peep  over  the  fence,  nothing  more  serious  to  ob 
struct  the  view,  and  thimbleberries  are  the  food 
of  thought  (before  the  drought),  along  by  the 
walls.  A  road  that  passes  over  the  Heigh  t-of- 
land,  between  earth  and  heaven,  separating  those 
streams  which  flow  earthward  from  those  which 
flow  heavenward. 

"  It  is  those  who  go  to  Brighton  arid  to  market 
that  wear  out  all  the  roads,  and  they  should  pay 
all  the  tax.  The  deliberate  pace  of  a  walker  never 
made  a  road  the  worse  for  travelling  on,  —  on  the 
promenade  deck  of  the  world,  an  outside  passenger  ; 
where  I  have  freedom  in  my  thought,  and  in  my 
soul  am  free.  Excepting  the  omnipresent  butcher 
with  his  calf-cart,  followed  by  a  distracted  and 
anxious  cow,  —  the  inattentive  stranger  baker, 
whom  no  weather  detains,  that  does  not  bake  his 
bread  in  this  hemisphere,  and  therefore  it  is  dry 
before  it  gets  here !  Ah !  there  is  a  road  where 
you  might  adventure  to  fly,  and  make  no  prepa 
rations  till  the  time  comes ;  where  your  wings  will 
sprout  if  anywhere,  where  your  feet  are  not  con 
fined  to  earth.  An  airy  head  makes  light  walking, 


PHILOSOPHY.  119 

when  I  am  not  confined  and  baulked  by  the  sight 
of  distant  farm-houses,  which  I  have  not  gone  past. 
I  must  be  fancy  free  ;  I  must  feel  that,  wet  or 
dry,  high  or  low,  it  is  the  genuine  surface  of  the 
planet,  and  not  a  little  chip-dirt  or  a  compost  heap, 
or  made  land,  or  redeemed.  A  thinker's  weight  is 
in  his  thought,  not  in  his  tread  ;  when  he  thinks 
freely,  his  body  weighs  nothing.  He  cannot  tread 
down  your  grass,  farmers  !  " 

"  Thus  far  to  day  your,favors  reach, 

O  fair  appeasing  presences  ! 
Ye  taught  my  lips  a  single  speech 
And  a  thousand  silences/' 


120  TEOREAU. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

WALKS    AND     TALKS. 

"  Absents  within  the  line  conspire."  —  VAUGHAH". 

"  What  I  have  reaped  in  my  journey  is,  as  it  were,  a  small  contentment  in 
a  never-contenting  subject;  a  bitter-pleasant  taste  of  a  sweet-seasoned 
sour.  All  in  all,  what  I  found  was  more  than  ordinary  rejoicing,  in  an 
extraordinary  sorrow  of  delights." — LITHGOW. 

"What  is  it  to  me  that  I  can  write  these  Table-Talks  ?  Others  have 
more  property  in  them  than  I  have :  they  may  reap  the  benefit,  /  have  had 
only  the  pain.  Nor  should  I  know  that  I  had  ever  thought  at  all,  but  that 
I  am  reminded  of  it  by  the  strangeness  of  my  appearance  and  my  unntness 
for  any  thing  else."  —  HAZLITT. 

"Not  mine  the  boast  of  countless  herds, 
Nor  purple  tapestries,  nor  treasures  gold, 
But  mine  the  peaceful  spirit, 
And  the  dear  muse,  and  pleasant  wine 
Stored  in  Boeotian  urns."  —  BACCHYLIDES. 

r  I  ^O  furnish  a  more  familiar  idea  of  Thoreau's 
J-     walks  and  talks  with  his  friends  and   their 
locality,  some  reports  of  them  are   furnished  for 
convenience  in  the  interlocutory  form. 

SECOND   DIVISION  BROOK. 

And  so  you  are  ready  for  a  walk  ? 

"  Hence  sand  and  dust  are  shak'd  for  witnesses." 

When  was  I  ever  not?  Where  shall  we  go? 
To  Conantum  or  White  Pond,  or  is  the  Second  Di 
vision  our  business  for  this  afternoon  ? 


WALKS  AND    TALKS.  121 

As  you  will.  Under  your  piloting  I  feel  par 
tially  safe  ;  l>ut  not  too  far,  not  too  much.  Brevity 
is  the  sole  of  walking. 

And  yet  all  true  walking,  all  virtuous  walking, 
is  a  travail.  The  season  is  proper  to  the  Brook.  I 
am  in  the  mood  to  greet  the  Painted  Tortoise ;  nor 
must  I  fail  to  examine  the  buds  of  the  marsh  mari 
gold,  now,  I  think,  somewhat  swollen.  But  few 
birds  have  come  in,  though  Minot  says  he  has  heard 
a  bluebird. 

Did  he  ask  his  old  question, — *Seen  a  robin? 
Minot  is  native  and  to  the  manor  born  ;  was  never 
away  from  home  but  once,  when  he  was  drafted 
as  a  soldier  in  the  last  war,  and  when  he  went  to 
Dorchester  Heights,  and  has  never  ridden  on  a 
rail.  What  do  you  make  of  him  ? 

He  makes  enough  of  himself.  The  railroad  has 
proved  too  great  a  temptation  for  most  of  our  far 
mers  :  the  young  men  have  a  foreign  air  their  fathers 
never  had.  We  shall  not  boast  of  Mors  Ipse, 
Grass  and  Oats,  or  Oats  and  Grass,  and  old  Verjuice, 
in  the  next  generation.  These  rudimental  Saxons 
have  the  air  of  pine-trees  and  apple-trees,  and  might 
be  their  sons  got  between  them,  —  conscientious 
laborers,  with  a  science  born  within  them,  from  out 
the  sap-vessels  of  their  savage  sires.  This  savagery 
is  native  with  man,  and  polished  New  England 
cannot  do  without  it.  That  makes  the  charm  of 
6 


122  TEOEEAU. 

grouse-shooting  and  deer-stalking  to  those  Lord 
Breadalbanes,  walking  out  of  their  doors  one  hun 
dred  miles  to  the  sea,  on  their  own  property  ;  or 
Dukes  of  Sutherland  getting  off  at  last  their  town- 
coat,  donning  their  hunters'  gear,  exasperated  by 
saloons  and  dress-coats. 

Let  me  rest  a  fraction  on  the  bridge. 

I  am  your  well-wisher  in  that.  The  manners 
of  water  are  beautiful.  "  As  for  beauty,  I  need 
not  look  beyond  my  oar's  length  for  my  fill  of  it." 
As  I  heard  my  companion  say  this,  my  eye  rested 
on  the  charming  play  of  light  on  the  water  which 
he  was  slowly  striking  with  his  paddle.  I  fancied 
that  I  had  never  seen  such  color,  such  transpar 
ency,  such  eddies.  It  was  the  hue  of  Rhine  wines, 
it  was  gold  and  green,  and  chestnut  and  hazel,  in 
bewildering  succession  and  relief,  without  cloud  or 
confusion.  A  little  canoe,  with  three  men  or  boys 
in  it,  put  out  from  a  creek  and  paddled  down 
stream,  and  afar  and  near  we  paid  homage  to  the 
"Blessed  Water,"  inviolable,  magical,  whose  na 
ture  is  beauty,  which  instantly  began  to  play  its 
sweet  games,  all  circles  and  dimples,  and  lively 
gleaming  motions,  always  Ganges,  the  Sacred 
River,  and  which  cannot  be  desecrated  or  made  to 
forget  itself;  "  For  marble  sweats  and  rocks  have 
tears." 

Hark  !     Was  that  the  bluebird's  warble  ? 


WALKS  AND   TALKS.  123 

I  could  not  hear  it,  as  now  cometh  the  seventh 
abomination,  the  train. 

And  yet  it  looks  like  a  new  phenomenon,  though 
it  has  appeared  at  the  same  hour  each  day  for  these 
ten  years. 

Already  the  South  Acton  passengers  squeeze 
their  bundles,  and  the  member  of  the  legislature 
hastens  to  drain  the  last  drop  of  vulgar  gossip  from 
the  Ginger-beer  paper  before  he  leaves  the  cars  to 
fodder  and  milk  his  kine.  I  trust  that  in  heaven 
will  be  no  cows.  They  are  created,  apparently,  to 
give  the  farmer  a  sport  between  planting  and  har 
vest,  the  joy  of  haying,  dust,  grime,  and  tan,  diluted 
by  sun  strokes. 

The  cause  of  cows  is,  that  they  make  good  walk 
ing  where  they  feed.  In  the  paths  of  the  thicket 
the  best  engineer  is  the  cow. 

We  cross  where  the  high  bank  will  give  us  a 
view  over  the  river  at  Clam-shell,  and  where  I 
may  possibly  get  an  arrow-head  from  this  Concord 
Kitchen-modding. 

A  singular  proclivity,  thou  worshipper  of  In 
dians  !  for  arrow-heads ;  and  I  presume,  like  cer 
tain  other  worships,  uncurable ! 

Apply  thy  Procrustes-bed  to  my  action,  and  per 
mit  me  to  continue  my  search.  They  speak  of 
Connecticuts  and  Hudsons  :  our  slow  little  stream, 
in  its  spring  overflow,  draws  on  the  surtout  of 


124  THOEEAU.    . 

greater  rivers  ;  a  river,  —  fair,  solitary  path,  —  the 
one  piece  of  real  estate  belonging  to  the  walker, 
unfenced,  un deeded,  sacred  to  musquash  and  pick 
erel,  and  George  Melvin,  gunner,  more  by  the 
token  he  was  drowned  in  it. 

Are  not  those  gulls,  gleaming  like  spots  of  in 
tense  white  light,  far  away  on  the  dark  bosom  of 
the  meadows  ? 

Yes,  indeed !  they  come  from  the  sea  each 
spring  overflow,  and  go  a-fishing  like  Goodwin. 
See  !  I  have  got  a  quartz  arrow-head,  —  and  perfect. 
This  bank  is  made  of  the  clams  baked  by  the  Indi 
ans.  Let  us  look  a  moment  at  the  minnows  as  we 
cross  the  brook ;  I  can  see  their  shadows  on  the 
yellow  sand  much  clearer  than  themselves,  and  can 
thus  count  the  number  of  their  fins.  I  wonder  if 
the  Doctor  ever  saw  a  minnow.  In  his  report  on 
reptiles,  he  says  he  has  never  seen  but  one 
Hylodes  Pickeringii,  in  a  dried  state.  It  is  well 
also  to  report  upon  what  you  have  not  seen.  He 
never  troubled  himself  with  looking  about  in  the 
country.  The  poet  more  than  the  savant  marries 
man  to  nature.  I  wish  we  had  some  fuller  word 
to  express  this  fine  picture  we  see  from  Clam-shell 
bank :  kinde  was  the  old  English  word,  but  we 
do  not  designate  the  power  that  works  for  beauty 
alone,  whilst  man  works  only  for  use. 

See,  O  man  of  nature  !  yon  groups  of  weather- 


WALKS  AND    TALKS.  125 

stained  houses  we  now  o'ertop.  There  live  some 
Christians,  put  away  on  life's  plate  like  so  many 
rinds  of  cheese  ;  there  descend,  like  dew  on  flow 
ers,  the  tranquillizing  years,  into  their  prickly  life- 
petals.  Save  the  rats  scrabbling  along  the  old 
plastering,  the  sawing  of  pluvial  pea-hens,  or  the 
low  of  the  recuperating  cow,  what  repose  !  And 
in  the  midst,  such  felons  of  destiny,  — 

"  0  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die." 

What  avails  against  hot-bread,  cream-of-tartar, 
and  Oriental-company  tea,  with  an  afternoon  nap  ? 
I  have  met  OEnones  whom  I  could  have  spared 
better  than  these  horn-pouts  of  gossip. 

Is  there  a  fixed  sum  of  hyson  allotted  to  each 
sibyl? 

"  Only  a  learned  and  a  manly  soul 

I  purposed  her,  that  should  with  even  powers 
The  rock,  the  spindle,  and  the  shears  control 
Of  Destiny,  and  spin  her  own  full  hours." 

The  bluebird,  sir !  the  first  bluebird !  there  he 
sits  and  warbles.  Dear  bird  of  spring,  first  speech 
of  the  original  beauty,  first  note  in  the  annual  con 
cert  of  love,  why  soundest  thy  soft  and  plaintive 
warble  on  my  ear,  like  the  warning  of  a  mournful 
past  ? 

As  the  poet  sings,  if  not  of  the  new  birds :  — 

"  We  saw  thee  in  thy  balmy  nest, 
Bright  dawn  of  our  eternal  day  ; 


126  TEOEEAU. 

We  saw  thine  eyes  break  from  their  east, 
And  chase  the  trembling  shades  away  : 
We  saw  thee,  and  we  blest  the  sight, 
We  saw  thee  by  thine  own  sweet  light. 

She  sings  thy  tears  asleep,  and  dips 

Her  kisses  in  thy  weeping  eye ; 
She  spreads  the  red  leaves  of  thy  lips, 

That  in  their  buds  yet  blushing  lie : 
She  'gainst  those  mother  diamonds  tries 
The  points  of  her  young  eagle's  eyes." 

Excuse  soliloquy. 

Go  on,  go  on :  I  can  hear  the  bluebird  just  the 
same. 

I  am  glad  we  are  at  the  sand-bank.  Radiantly 
here  the  brook  parts  across  the  shallows  its  ever- 
rippling  tresses  of  golden  light.  It  steals  away 
my  battered  senses  as  I  gaze  therein ;  and,  if  I  re 
member  me,  'tis  in  some  murmuring  line  :  — 

"  Thus  swam  away  my  thoughts  on  thee, 

And  in  thy  joyful  ecstasy 
Flowed  with  thy  waters  to  thy  sea/* 

And  the  quantity  of  thy  rhyme,  I  judge.  Let 
us  to  the  ancient  woods  :  I  say  let  us  value  the 
woods.  They  are  full  of  solicitations.  My  wood- 
lot  has  no  price,  full  of  mysterious  values.  What 
forms,  what  colors,  what  powers,  null  to  our  igno 
rance,  but  opening  fast  enough  to  our  wit.  I  love 
this  smell  that  comes  from  the  brush  of  the  pitch- 
pine,  as  the  spring  sun  bakes  its  first  batch  of  violets 


WALKS  AND   TALKS.  127 

here.  And  here  is  the  brook  itself,  the  petted 
darling  of  the  meadows,  wild  minstrel  of  an  an 
cient  song,  poured  through  the  vales  for  ever. 
The  sands  of  Pactolus  were  not  more  golden  than 
these  of  thine,  and  black  thte  eddying  pools,  where 
the  old  experienced  trout  sleeps  on  his  oars.  As 
hurries  the  water  to  the  sea,  so  seeks  the  soul  its 
universe.  And  this  is  the  May-flower,  sweet  as 
Cytherea's  breath  ;  and  in  yonder  lowlands  grows 
the  climbing  fern.  Simple  flowers !  Yet  was  not 
Solomon  in  all  his  glory  arrayed  like  one  of  these. 

"  To  clothe  the  fiery  thought 
In  simple  word  succeeds, 
For  still  the  craft  of  genius  is 
To  mask  a  king  in  weeds." 

OLD  SUDBUEY  INN. 

There,  you  have  it !  Howe's  tavern,  on  the  old 
Worcester  turnpike.  I  was  never  before  here,  au 
revoir  ! 

A  new  place  is  good  property,  if  we  have  the 
prospect  of  owning  it,  hey,  Betty  Martin !  'Tis  one 
of  the  ancient  taverns  of  the  noble  old  Common 
wealth  :  observe  the  date,  1719,  painted  on  the 
sign.  From  that  to  this  the  same  family  have  had 
it  in  their  keeping,  and  many  a  glass  has  been 
drunk  and  paid  for  at  the  bar,  whose  defence  you 
observe  moves  curiously  up  and  down  like  a  part- 


128  THOREAU. 

cullis,  and  the  room  is  ceiled  all  round,  instead  of 
plastered.  There  is  a  seigniorial  property  attached 
to  it,  some  hundred  acres ;  and  see  the  old  but 
tresses  of  time-channelled  oak  along  the  road,  in 
front,  that  must  have  been  set  at  the  same  time 
with  the  inn.  A  spacious  brook  canters  behind 
the  house ;  yonder  is  a  noble  forest ;  and  there 
above  us,  Nobscot,  our  nearest  mountain.  Indeed, 
the  tract  across  to  Boone's  Pond  and  Sudbury  is 
all  a  piece  of  wild  wood.  Come,  away  for  Nob- 
scot  !  taking  the  sandy  path  behind  the  barn.  Do 
you  see  that  strange,  embowered  roof,  peeping  out 
of  its  great  vase  of  apple-blossoms  ?  for  this,  O 
man  of  many  cares  !  is  the  23d  of  May,  and  just  as 
much  Blossom- day  as  ever  was. 

I  see  the  peeping  chimney,  —  romance  itself. 
May  I  hope  never  to  know  the  name  of  the  re 
markable  genius  who  dwells  therein. 

Very  proper,  no  doubt,  —  Tubs  or  Scrubs. 

Believe  it  not,  enemy  to  Blossom-day  romance. 
My  soul  whispers  of  a  fair,  peculiar  region  behind 
those  embracing  bouquets. 

Where  one  should  surely  find  an  anxious  cook 
and  a  critical  family. 

Hush !  hush  !  traduce  not  the  venerable  groves. 
Here,  or  in  some  such  devoted  solitude,  should 
dwell  the  Muse  and  compose  a  treatise  on  the  wor 
ship  of  Dryads. 


WALKS   AND    TALKS.  129 

Dry  as  powder-post.  Have  you  seen  the  scarlet 
tanager  ? 

No. 

The  Puseyite  unmistakable  among  our  birds,  — 
true,  high-church  scarlet.  Hear !  the  pe wee's  soft, 
lisping,  pee-a-wee !  Now,  as  we  rise  and  leave  the 
splendid  chestnut  forest,  the  view  opens.  Nobscot 
is  a  true,  low  mountain,  and  these  small  creatures 
look  off  the  best.  I  love  the  broad,  healthy,  new- 
springing  pastures,  ornamented  with  apple-tree 
pyramids,  the  pastoral  architecture  of  the  cow ; 
the  waving  saxifrage  and  delicate  houstonia,  that 
spring-beauty;  and  the  free,  untrammelled  air  of 
the  mountains,  —  it  never  swept  the  dusty  plain. 
There's  our  Cliff  and  meeting-house  in  Concord, 
and  Barrett's  hill,  and  Anursnac ;  next  comes 
high  Lincoln  with  his  gleaming  spires,  and  modest 
Wayland  low  in  the  grass,  the  Great  Sudbury 
Meadows  (sap-green),  and  Framing-ham  and  Na- 
tick.  How  many  dark  belts  of  pines  stalk  across 
the  bosky  landscape,  like  the  traditions  of  the  old 
Sagamores,  who  fished  in  yonder  Long  Pond  that 
now  colors  its  town  with  reddish  water  a  country 
boy  might  bathe  in  if  hard  pushed  ! 

I  faintly  hear  the  sound  of  the  church-going 
bell,  I  suppose,  of  Framingham. 

(As  the  country  wife  beats  her  brass  pan  to  col 
lect  her  bees.)  In  the  landscape  is  found  the  magic 
6*  i 


130  THOREAU. 

of  color.  The  world  is  all  opal,  and  these  ethereal 
tints  the  mountains  wear  have  the  finest  effects 
of  music  on  us.  Mountains  are  great  poets,  and 
one  glance  at  this  fine  New  Hampshire  range  of 
Watatic,  Monadnock,  Peterboro',  and  Uncannun- 
nuk,  undoes  a  deal  of  prose  and  reinstates  poor, 
wronged  men  in  their  rights,  life  and  society  begin 
to  be  illuminated  and  transparent,  and  we  general 
ize  boldly  and  well.  Space  is  felt  as  a  privilege. 
There  is  some  pinch  and  narrowness  to  the  best. 
Here  we  laugh  and  leap  to  see  the  world,  and  what 
amplitudes  it  has  of  meadow,  stream,  upland,  for 
est,  arid  sea,  which  yet  are  but  lanes  and  crevices 
to  the  great  space  in  which  the  world  swims  like  a 
cockboat  on  the  ocean.  There  below  are  those 
farms,  but  the  life  of  farmers  is  unpoetic.  The 
life  of  labor  does  not  make  men,  but  drudges.  'Tis 
pleasant,  as  the  habits  of  all  poets  may  testify,  to 
think  of  great  proprietors,  to  reckon  this  grove  we 
walk  in  a  park  of  the  noble ;  but  a  continent  cut 
up  into  ten-acre  lots  is  not  attractive.  The  farmer 
is  an  enchanted  laborer,  who,  after  toiling  his 
brains  out,  sacrificing  thought,  religion,  love,  hope, 
courage,  to  toil,  turns  out  a  bankrupt,  as  well  as 
the  shopman. 

I  must  meditate  an  ode  to  be  called,  "  Adieu, 
my  Johnny-cake." 

Ay,  ay:  hasty-pudding  for  the  masculine  eye, 


WALKS  AND    TALKS.  131 

chicken  and  jellies  for  girls.  Yonder  on  that  hill 
is  Marlboro',  a  town  (in  autumn  at  least,  when  I 
visited  it)  that  wears  a  rich  appearance  of  rustic 
plenty  and  comfort,  —  ample  farms,  good  houses, 
profuse  yellow  apple-heaps,  pumpkin  mountains  in 
every  enclosure,  orchards  left  ungathered  ;  and  in 
the  Grecian  piazzas  of  the  houses,  squashes  ripen 
ing  between  the  columns.  At  Cutting's  were  oats 
for  the  horse,  but  no  dinner  for  men,  so  we  went 
to  a  chestnut  grove  and  an  old  orchard  for  our 
fare. 

Now  for  an  inscription  upon 

OLD    SUDBUKY   INN. 

Who  set  the  oaks 

Along  the  road  ? 

Was  it  not  Nature's  hand, 

Old  Sudbury  Inn  ?  for  I  have  stood 

And  wondered  at  the  sight, 

The  oaks  my  delight. 

And  the  elms, 

So  boldly  branching  to  the  sky, 

And  the  interminable  forests, 

Old  Sudbury  Inn !  that  wash  thee,  nigh 

On  every  side, 

With  a  green  and  rustling  tide. 

Such  oaks !  such  elms ! 
And  the  contenting  woods, 


132  THOEEAU. 

And  Nobscot  good. 

Old  Sudbury  Inn !  creature  of  moods, 

That  could  I  find 

Well  suited  to  the  custom  of  my  mind. 

Most  homely  seat, 

Where  Nature  eats  her  frugal  meals 

And  studies  to  outwit, 

Old  Sudbury  Inn !  what  thy  inside  reveals, 

Long  mayst  thou  be 

More  than  a  match  for  her  and  me. 

And  so  it  comes  every  year,  this  lovely  Blossom- 
day : — 

"The  cup  of  life  is  not  so  shallow 

That  we  have  drained  the  best, 
That  all  the  wines  at  once  we  swallow, 
And  lees  make  all  the  rest. 

Maids  of  as  soft  a  bloom  'shall  many, 

As  Hymen  yet  hath  blessed, 
And  fairer  forms  are  in  the  quarry 

Than  Angelo  released." 

And  to-day  the  air  is  spotted  with  the  encour 
aging  rigmarole  of  the  bobolink,  —  that  buttery, 
vivacious,  fun-may-take-me  cornucopia  of  song. 
Once  to  hear  his  larripee,  larripee,  buttery,  scattery, 
wittery,  pittery ;  some  yellow,  some  black  feath 
ers,  a  squeeze  of  air,  and  this  summer  warming 
song  !  The  bobolink  never  knew  cold,  and  never 


WALKS   AND    TALKS.  133 

could,  —  the  musician  of  blossoms.  Hark !  -  the 
veery's  liquid  strain,  with  trilling  cadence ;  his 
holy  brother,  the  wood-thrush,  pitches  his  flute- 
notes  in  the  pine  alleys,  where  at  twilight  is  heard 
the  strange  prophecy  of  the  whippoorwill.  The 
oven-bird  beats  his  brass  witcher-twitcher  in  the 
heated  shades  of  noon,  mixed  with  the  feathery 
roll-call  of  the  partridge.  As  we  take  our  nooning, 
I  will  recall  some  lines  on  this  famous  bird. 

Song, THE    PARTRIDGE. 

Shot  of  the  wood,  from  thy  ambush  low, 

Bolt  off  the  dry  leaves  flying, 
With  a  whirring  spring  like  an  Indian's  bow, 

Thou  speed'st  when  the  year  is  dying ; 
And  thy  neat  gray  form  darts  whirling  past, 
So  silent  all,  as  thou  fliest  fast, 
Snapping  a  leaf  from  the  copses  red, 
Our  native  bird  on  the  woodlands  bred. 

I  have  trembled  a  thousand  times, 

As  thy  bolt  through  the  thicket  was  rending, 
Wondering  at  thee  in  the  autumn  chimes, 

When  thy  brother's  soft  wings  were  bending 
Swift  to  the  groves  of  the  spicy  south, 
Where  the  orange  melts  in  the  zephyr's  mouth, 
And  the  azure  sunshine  humors  the  air, 
And  Winter  ne'er  sleeps  in  his  pallid  chair. 

And  thy  whirring  wings  I  hear, 
When  the  colored  ice  is  warming 


134  THOREAU. 

The  twigs  of  the  forest  sere, 

While  the  northern  wind  a-storming 
Draws  cold  as  death  round  the  Irish  hut 
That  lifts  its  blue  smoke  in  the  railroad  cut, 
And  the  hardy  chopper  sits  dreaming  at  home, 
And  thou  and  I  are  alone  in  the  storm. 

Brave  bird  of  my  woodland  haunt, 

Good  child  of  the  autumn  dreary, 
Drum  of  my  city  and  bass  of  my  chaunt, 

With  thy  rushing  music  so  cheery, 
Desert  not  my  bowers  for  the  southern  flowers, 
Nor  my  pale  northern  woods  for  her  ruby  hours ; 
Let  us  bide  the  rude  blast  and  the  ringing  hail, 
Till  the  violets  peep  on  the  Indian's  trail. 

Above  our  heads  the  night-hawk  rips ;  and, 
soaring  over  the  tallest  pine,  the  fierce  hen-harrier 
screams  and  hisses ;  cow,  cow,  cow,  sounds  the 
timorous  cuckoo :  thus  our  cheerful  and  pleasant 
birds  do  sing  along  else  silent  paths,  strewn  with 
the  bright  and  bluest  violets,  with  houstonias, 
anemones,  and  cinque-foils.  Academies  of  Music 
and  Schools  of  Design,  truly !  and  to-day  on  all 
the  young  oaks  shall  be  seen  their  bright  crimson 
leaves,  each  in  itself  as  good  as  a  rich  and  delicate 
flower  ;  and  the  sky  bends  o'er  us  with  its  friendly 
face  like  Jerusalem  delivered. 

And  Mrs.  Jones  and  Miss  Brown  — 

No,  indeed :  I  declare  it  boldly  let  us  leave  out 


WALKS  AND    TALKS.  135 

man  in  such  days  ;  his  history  may  be  written 
at  nearly  any  future  period,  in  dull  weather. 

Yet  hath  the  same  toiling  knave  in  yonder  field 
a  kind  of  grirn  advantage. 

The  grime  I  perceive,  and  hear  the  toads  sing. 

Yet  the  poet  says,  — 

"  Not  in  their  houses  stand  the  stars, 
But  o'er  the  pinnacles  of  thine." 

And  also  listen  to  my  poet :  — 

"  Go  thou  to  thy  learned  task, 
I  stay  with  the  flowers  of  Spring  ; 

Do  thou  of  the  Ages  ask, 
What  to  me  the  Hours  will  bring." 

Oh,  the  soft,  mellow  green  of  the  swamp-sides ! 
Oh,  the  sweet,  tender  green  of  the  pastures  I  Do 
you  observe  how  like  the  colors  of  currant-jelly 
are  the  maple-keys  where  the  sun  shines  through 
them?  I  suppose  to  please  you  I  ought  to  be 
unhappy,  but  the  contrast  is  too  strong. 

See  the  Rana  palustris  bellying  the  world  in  the 
warm  pool,  and  making  up  his  froggy  mind  to 
accept  the  season  for  lack  of  a  brighter  ;  and  will 
not  a  gossipping  dialogue  between  two  comfortable 
brown  thrashers  cure  the  heartache  of  half  the 
world  ?  Hear  the  charming  song-sparrow,  the 
Prima-donna  of  the  wall  side  ;  and  the  meadow- 
lark's  sweet,  timid,,  yet  gushing  lay  hymns  the 
praise  of  the  Divine  Beauty. 


136  THOREAU. 

And  were  you  ever  in  love  ? 

Was  that  the  squeak  of  a  night-hawk  ? 

Yes,  flung  beyond  the  thin  wall  of  nature, 
whereon  thy  fowls  and  beasts  are  spasmodically 
plastered,  and  swamped  so  perfectly  in  one  of  thy 
own  race  as  to  forget  this  illusory  showman's  wax 
figures. 

A  stake-driver  !'  pump-a-gaw,  pump-a-gaw,  like 
an  old  wooden  pump.  They  call  the  bittern  butter- 
lump  in  some  countries.  Every  thing  is  found  in 
nature,  even  the  stuff  of  which  thou  disco ursest 
thus  learnedly. 

I  would  it  were  not,  O  Epaminondas  Holly ! 

What,  sir  !  and  have  you  had  a  touch  of  the 
chicken-pox  ? 

I  shall  not  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag. 

Go  in  peace  !  I  must  do  my  best  and  catch  that 
green-throated  gentleman.  To  take  frogs  hand 
some  requires  a  quick  eye  and  a  fine  touch,  like 
high  art.  They  dive  under  the  sludge  ;  their  colors 
are  of  the  water  and  the  grass,  chameleon-like. 
How  ridiculous  is  yonder  colt,  the  color  of  sugar 
gingerbread,  set  upon  four  long  legs  and  swishing 
a  bald  tail !  and  how  he  laughs  at  us  men  folks 
nibbling  our  crackers  and  herring !  May  our 
wit  be  as  dry  as  our  matinee.  Now  the  water 
mouse-ear,  typha,  or  reed-mace;  Drosera  rotundi- 
folia,  Solomon's  seal,  violets  of  all  sorts,  bulbous 


WALKS  AND   TALKS.  137 

arethrum,  yellow  lily,  dwarf  cornel,  louse  wort,  yel 
low  Star  of  Bethlehem,  Polygqla  paueifolia,  Arum 
tripliyllum,  cohosh  — 

Hush  !  hush !  what  names  !  Hadst  thou  spoken 
to  me  of  Violet,  that  child  of  beauty  ! 

"  Where  its  long  rings  unwinds  the  fern, 

The  violet,  nestling  low, 
Casts  back  the  white  lid  of  its  urn, 
Its  purple  streaks  to  show. 

Beautiful  blossom !  first  to  rise 

And  smile  beneath  Spring's  wakening  skies ; 

The  courier  of  the  band 
Of  coming  flowers,  —  what  feelings  sweet 
Flow,  as  tlie  silvery  germ  we  meet 

Upon  its  needle- wand  !  " 

CONANTUM. 

As  good  as  the  domains  of  royalty,  and  is  the 
possession  of  an  ancient  New  England  farmer. 

From  this  bridge  I  see  only  a  simple  field,  with 
its  few  old  apple-trees.  It  rises  neatly  to  the 
west. 

When  we  traverse  the  whole  of  the  long  seign 
iorage,  I  think  you  will  agree  that  this  is  a  good 
place  for  a  better  than  Montaigne-chateau  (the 
stake-driver  pump-a-gawing  again).  From  this 
corner  to  Fairhaven  bay  the  domain  extends,  with 
not  an  ounce  of  cultivated  soil.  First,  a  tract  of 
woodland,  with  its  pleasant  wood-paths,  its  deep 


138  THOREAU. 

and  mossy  swamp,  where  owls  and  foxes'have  holes, 
and  the  long  lichens  sway  their  soft,  green  tresses 
from  the  rotting  spruce.  Behind  yon  old  barn 
stands  the  original  farmhouse  ;  the  mouldering 
shell  has  ripened  birth  and  death,  marriage  feasts 
and  funeral  tables,  where  now  the  careless  flies 
only  buzz  and  the  century-old  crow  alights  on  the 
broad  roof  that  almost  touches  the  ground.  The 
windows  are  gone,  the  door  half  ruined,  the  chim 
ney  down,  the  roof  falling  in, — sans  eyes,  sans 
ears,  sans  life,  sans  every  thing.  Not  even  a  con 
templative  cat  shakes  his  irresponsive  sides  on  this 
solitude,  and  the  solid  grass  grows  up  to  the  edges 
of  the  enormous  door-stone.  Our  ancestors  took  a 
pride  in  acquiring  the  largest  and  flattest  rock 
possible  to  lay  before  the  hospitable  sill.  We  do 
get  unscrupulously  rid  of  the  ancestral  mansion, 
and  the  pot  of  beans  of  the  careful  grandson  bakes 
upon  the  architectural  desolation  of  "  my  grand 
papa."  Ascend  this  height,  and  you  will  see  (part 
second)  the  lovely  valley  of  the  Concord  at  your 
feet,  — 

"  See  where  the  winding  vale  its  lavish  stores 
Irriguous  spreads." 

There  is  the  Musketaquid,  the  grass-ground  river. 

A  goodly  view  !  and  noble  walking  ! 

Let  us   continue  on  a  few  steps  more   till  we 
reach  the  little  meadow,  a  natural  arboretum,  where 


WALKS  AND   TALKS.  139 

grows  the  black  ash,  the  bass,  and  the  cohosh, 
cornels,  viburnums,  sassafras,  and  arethusas  :  — 

"  Each  spot  where  tulips  prank  their  state 
Has  drunk  the  life-blood  of  the  great ; 
The  violets  yon  field  which  stain 
Are  moles  of  cheeks  which  time  hath  slain." 

How  the  earliest  kiss  of  June  heaps  the  trees  with 
leaves,  and  makes  land  and  orchard,  hillside  and 
garden,  verdantly  attractive  !  Man  feels  the  blood 
of  thousands  in  his  body,  and  his  heart  pumps 
the  sap  of  all  this  forest  of  vegetation  through  his 
proper  arteries.  Here  is  his  work,  and  here  he  is 
a  most  willing  workman.  He  displaces  birch  and 
chestnut,  larch  and  alder,  and  will  set  out  oak  and 
beech  to  cover  the  land  with  leafy  colonnades. 
Then  it  seems  what  a  fugitive  summer-flower, 
papilionaceous,  is  he,  whisking  about  amid  these 
longevities.  Gladly  he  could  spread  himself  abroad 
among  them,  love  the  tall  trees  as  if  he  were  their 
father,  borrow  by  his  love  the  manner  of  his  trees, 
and  with  nature's  patience  watch  the  giants,  from 
the  youth  to  the  age  of  the  golden  fruit  or  gnarled 
timber,  nor  think  it  long.  This  great  domain,  all 
but  this  one  meadow,  is  under  the  holding  of  one 
old  prudent  husbandman  ;  and  here  is  an  old  cellar- 
hole,  where  in  front  yet  grows  the  vivacious  lilac 
in  profuse  flower,  —  a  plant  to  set.  It  has  out 
lived  man  and  dog,  hen  and  pig,  house  and  wife,  — 


140  THOREAU. 

"  all,  all  are  gone,"  except  the  "  old  familiar  face  " 
of  the  delightsome  lilac.  And  now  we  stand  on 
the  verge  of  broad  Fairhaven,  and  below  us  falls 
the  scaly  frost-abraded  precipice  to  the  pitch-pines 
and  walnuts  that  stand  resigned  to  their  lower 
avocations.  There  is  about  us  here  that  breath  of 
wildness,  in  whose  patronage  the  good  Indians 
dwelt ;  there  is  around  us  in  these  herbaceous  odors, 
in  these  lustral  skies,  all  that  earthly  life  hath  ever 
known  of  beauty  or  of  joy.  Thus  sings  the  lark 
as  he  springs  from  his  nest  in  the  grassy  meadow ; 
thus  in  the  barberry  hedge,  along  the  gray  and  pre 
carious  wall,  the  melodious  song-sparrow  chants  in 
his  brownish  summer-suit  and  that  brevet  of  honor 
on  his  breast,  the  black  rosette,  constituting  him 
"  Conantum's  Malibran."  It  is  Time's  holiday,  the 
festival  of  June,  the  leafy  June,  the  flower-sped 
June,  the  bird-singing  June, 

"  And  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes." 

Let  us  get  a  good  look  from  these  cliffs  at  Baker 
Farm  that  lies  on  that  opposite  shore.  There  is 
Clematis  Brook,  Blue  Heron  Pond,  and  Mount 
Misery. 

WHITE   POND. 

Yesterday  was  Spring :  to-day  beginneth  the 
second  lesson,  what  doth  Summer  typify? 


WALKS  AND    TALKS.  141 

Hot  ovens,  a  baking-pan,  the  taking  our  turn  at 
the  spit.  Grasshoppers  creak  over  dry  fields,  and 
devilVneedles  whizz  across  your  hat  as  if  they  were 
scorched.  Black  snakes  conclude  it  is  pretty  com 
fortable,  considering  January.  Oh  !  the  heat  is 
like  solid  beds  of  feathers. 

I  think  you  said  we  were  going  to  White  Pond  ? 

A  favorable  July  afternoon's  plunge ;  the  river 
flashes  in  the  sun  like  a  candle.  This  little  forget- 
me-not  of  ours  is  as  pure  a  blue  as  the  German's. 
Ants,  bees,  millers,  June  flies,  horse  flies,  open 
shop ;  woodchucks  set  up  at  the  mouths  of  their 
holes  and  our  learned  advocate,  the  Mephitis  chinga, 
probes  the  wood-roads  for  beetles ;  robins,  bull 
frogs,  bobolinks,  Maryland  yellow-throats,  and  oven- 
birds  perform  operas  all  day  long ;  the  brave 
senecio  spots  the  sides  of  ditches  with  its  dusky 
gold.  How  sweet  its  root  smells  ! 

This  is  a  right  pleasant  stroll  along  the  Assa- 
bet? 

First-class  !  The  caterpillars  make  minced-meat 
of  the  wild  cherries.  Nature  does  so  love  to  pet 
worms,  —  an  odd  taste.  The  great  iris  is  now 
perfect,  and  the  maple-leaved  viburnum,- — two 
flower-belles  ;  the  turtles  dream  at  their  ease,  with 
but  their  noses  above  water  among  the  floating- 
heart  and  potamogetons,  —  a  good  investment  in  a 
blaze;  verdure,  verdure,  —  meadows,  copses,  fore- 


142  THOREAU. 

grounds  and  distances.  Showers  raise  up  their 
heads  in  the  west  to  catch  the  leafy  prospect. 

Is  it  not  against  the  dignity  of  man  that  a  little 
light  and  heat  can  so  despoil  him  ? 

See  that  nest  of  breams,  the  parents  swimming 
over  it,  —  some  fun  now  in  being  tickled  by  a  cool 
stream.  And  there  lives  a  lordly  baron,  a  great 
manorial  seignior,  with  a  private  road  to  his  castle 
of  Belvoir,  as  good  a  king  as  can  be  found  in 
Christendom.  We  had  best  stop  at  Duganne's 
spring  and  get  a  drink:  it  is  as  cold  as  charity. 
The  swallows  dart  away  over  the  river  and  Nut- 
meadow  Brook,  but  a  few  feet  above  the  surface, 
taking  insects  ;  the  turtles  have  writ  their  slow 
history  on  this  Duganne  sand-bank.  There  stretches 
the  old  Marlboro'  road,  and  now,  gleaming  beneath 
the  trees,  you  may  see  the  water  of  White  Pond. 

'Tis  not  as  large  as  Walden :  the  water  looks  of 
the  like  purity. 

Yes,  'tis  a  pretty  little  Indian* basin,  lovely  as 
Walden  once  was,  and  no  pen  could  ever  at  all 
describe  its  beauties.  We  can  almost  see  the 
sachem  in  his  canoe  in  the  shadowy  cove.  How 
wonderful,  as  we  make  the  circuit  of  the  shore, 
are  the  reflections ;  but  once  we  saw  them  in  au 
tumn,  and  then  the  marvellous  effect  of  the  col 
ored  woods  held  us  almost  to  the  going  down  of 
the  sun.  The  water,  slightly  rippled,  took  their 


WALKS  AND    TALKS.  143 

proper  character  from  the  pines,  birches,  and  few 
oaks  which  composed  the  grove,  and  the  subma 
rine  wood  seemed  made  of  Lombardy  poplar,  with 
such  delicious  green,  stained  by  gleams  of  mahog 
any  from  the  oaks,  and  streaks  of  white  from  the 
birches,  every  moment  more  excellent  :  it  was  the 
world  through  a  prism.  Is  all  the  beauty  to  per 
ish  ?  Shall  no  one  remake  this  sun  and  wind,  the 
sky-blue  river,  the  river-blue  sky,  -the  waving 
meadow,  the  iron-gray  house,  just  the  color  ofjgthe 
granite  rock  below,  the  paths  of  the  thicket,  the 
wide,  straggling,  wild  orchard,  in  which  Nature 
has  deposited  every  possible  flavor  in  the  apples 
of  different  trees,  —  whole  zones  and  climates  she 
has  concentrated  into  apples  ?  We  think  of  the  old 
benefactors  who  have  conquered  these  fields;  of 
the  old  man,  who  is  just  dying  in  these  days,  who- 
has  absorbed  such  volumes  of  sunshine,  like  a  huge 
melon  or  pumpkin  in  the  sun,  who  has  owned  in 
every  part  of  Concord  a  wood-lot,  until  he  could 
not  find  the  boundaries  of  them,  and  never  saw 
their  interiors.  But,  we  say,  where  is  he  who  is 
to  save  the  present  moment,  and  cause  that  this 
beauty  be  not  lost?  Shakespeare  saw  no  better 
heaven  or  earth,  but  had  the  power  and  need  to 
sing,  and  seized  the  dull,  ugly  England"  (ugly  to 
this),  and  made  it  amiable  and  enviable  to  all 
reading  men ;  and  now  we  are  forced  into  likening 


144  TEOREAU. 

this  to  that,  whilst  if  one  of  us  had  the  chanting 
constitution  that  land  would  no  more  be  heard  of. 
But  let  us  have  space  enough,  let  us  have  wild 
grapes  and  rock-maple  with  tubs  of  sugar  ;  let  us 
have  huge,  straggling  orchards ;  let  us  have  the 
JEbba  Hubbard  pear,  hemlock,  savin,  spruce,  walnut 
and  oak,  cider-mills  with  tons  of  pummace,  peat, 
cows,  horses,  Paddies,  carts  and  sleds.  But,  with 
all  this,  not  the  usurpation  of  the  past,  the  great 
hoaxes  of  the  Homers  and  Shakespeares  hindering 
the  books  and  the  men  of  to-day.  What  say  you 
of  Festus  ?  You  people  who  have  been  peda 
gogues  scarcely  tolerate  the  good  things  in  the 
moderns.  I  can  repeat  you  a  few  classic  lines  of 
that  poem  as  good  as  those  of  your  old  dramatists : 

"  How  can  the  beauty  of  material  things 
So  win  the  heart  and  work  upon  the  mind, 
Unless  like  uatured  with  them? 

When  the  soul  sweeps  the  future  like  a  glass, 
And  coming  things,  full  freighted  with  our  fates, 
Jut  out,  dark,  on  the  offing  of  the  mind. 

The  s.hadow  hourly  lengthens  o'er  my  brain, 
And  peoples  all  its  pictures  with  thyself. 

To  the  high  air  sunshine  and  cloud  are  one. 

And  lasses  with  sly  eyes, 

And  the  smile  settling  in  their  sun-flecked  cheeks, 
Like  noon  upon  the  mellow  apricot. 


WALKS  AND    TALKS.  145 

The  wave  is  never  weary  of  the  wind. 
For  marble  is  a  shadow  weighed  with  mind. 

The  last  high,  upward  slant  of  sun  upon  the  trees, 
Like  a  dead  soldier's  sword  upon  his  pall. 

Be  every  man  a  people  in  his  mind." 

And  that  is  a  pretty  little  poem  of  Swedenborg's, 
written  in  prose  :  "  The  ship  is  in  the  harbor  ;  the 
sails  are  swelling ;  the  east  wind  blows  ;  let  us 
weigh  anchor,  and  put  forth  to  sea." 

Oh,  certainly!  Oaks  and  horse-chestnuts  are 
quite  obsolete,  and  the  Horticultural  Society  are 
about  to  recommend  the  introduction  of  the  cab 
bage  as  a  shade-tree  ;  so  much  more  comprehen 
sible  and  convenient,  all  grown  from  the  seed 
upward  to  its  extreme  generous  crumple,  within 
thirty  days,  — -  past  contradiction  the  ornament  of 
the  modern  world,  and  then  good  to  eat,  —  choice 
good,  as  acorns  and  horse-chestnuts  are  not.  We 
will  have  shade  trees  for  breakfast.  Then  the 
effrontery  of  one  man's  exhibiting  more  wit  or  merit 
than  another !  Man  of  genius,  said  you  ?  man  of 
virtue  !  I  tell  you  both  are  malformations,  dropsies 
of  the  brain  or  the  liver,  and  must  be  strictly  pun 
ished  in  my  new  commonwealth.  Nothing  that  is 
not  extempore  shall  now  be  folerated ;"  pyramids 
and  cities  shall  give  place  to  tents  ;  the  man,  soul, 


146  THOREAU. 

sack,  and  skeleton,  which  many  years  or  ages  have 
built  up,  shall  go  for  nothing  ;  his  dinner,  the  rice 
and  mutton  he  ate  two  hours  ago,  now  fast  flowing 
into  chyle,  is  all  we  consider.  And  the  problem 
how  to  detach  new  dinner  from  old  man,  what 
we  respect  from  what  we  repudiate,  is  the  problem 
for  the  academies. 

"  Oh,  knit  me,  that  am  crumbled  dust !  " 
And  what  saith  Adsched  of  the  melon,  for  that 
criticism  needs  a  sop  to  Cerberus  ? 

"  Color,  taste,  and  smell,  —  smaragdus,  honey,  and  musk  ; 
Amber  for  the  tongue,  for  the  eye  a  picture  rare  ; 
If  you  cut  the  fruit  in  slices,  every  slice  a  crescent  fair ; 
If  you  have  it  whole,  the  full  harvest  moon  is  there." 

And  which  of  us  would  not  choose  to  be  one  of 
these  insects,  —  rose-bugs  of  splendid  fate,  living 
on  grape-flowers,  apple-trees,  and  roses,  and  dying 
of  an  apoplexy  of  sweet  sensations  in  the  golden 
middle  days  of  July  !  Hail,  vegetable  gods  !  I  could 
not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  chide  the  man  who  should 
ruin  himself  to  buy  a  patch  of  well-timbered  oak- 
land ;  I  admire  the  taste  which  makes  the  avenue 
to  a  house  (were  the  house  never  so  small)  through 
a  wood,  as  this  disposes  the  mind  of  the  host  and 
guest  to  the  deference  due.  We  want  deference  ; 
and  when  we  come  to  realize  that  thing  mechani 
cally,  we  want  acres.  Scatter  this  hot  and  crowded 
population  at  respectful  distances  each  from  each, 


WALKS  AND   TALKS.  147 

over  the  vacant  world.  The  doctor  and  his  friends 
fancied  it  was  the  cattle  made  all  this  wide  space 
necessary ;  and  that  if  there  were  no  cows  to 
pasture,  less  land  would  suffice.  But  a  cow  does 
not  require  so  much  land  as  my  eyes  require  be 
twixt  me  and  my  neighbor.  The  poet  asks  :  — 

"  Where  is  Skymir,  giant  Skymir  ? 
Come,  transplant  the  woods  for  me  ! 
Scoop  up  yonder  aged  ash, 
Centennial  fir,  old  boundary  pine, 
Beech  by  Indian  warriors  blazed, 
Maples  tapped  by  Indian  girls, 
Oaks  that  grew  in  the  Dark  Ages  ; 
Heedful  bring  them,  set  them  straight 
In  sifted  soil  before  my  porch, 
Now  turn  fhe  river  on  their  roots, 
That  no  leaf  wilt,  or  leading  shoot 
Drop  his  tall-erected  plume." 

Now  just  hop  over  with  your  eyes  to  yonder  gar 
den,  which  realizes  Goldsmith's  description,  "  The 
rusty  beds,  unconscious  of  a  poke,"  —  or  is  it  Cow- 
per  ;  the  rusty  nail  over  the  latch  of  the  gate  ;  the 
peach-trees  are  rusty,  the  arbors  rusty,  and  I 
think  the  proprietor,  if  there  be  one,  is  buried 
under  that  heap  of  old  iron.  But  look  across  the 
fence  into  Captain  Hardy's  land :  there's  a  musi 
cian  for  you,  who  knows  how  to  make  men  dance 
for  him  in  all  weathers,  —  all  sorts  of  men,  Paddies, 
felons,  farmers,  carpenters,  painters,  —  yes  !  and 
trees  and  grapes,  and  ice  and  stone,  hot  days,  cold 


148  THOEEAU. 

days.  Beat  that  true  Orpheus  lyre,  if  you  can. 
He  knows  how  to  make  men  sow,  dig,  mow,  and  lay 
stone-wall,  and  make  trees  bear  fruit  God  never 
gave  them ;  and  foreign  grapes  yield  the  juices  of 
France  and  Spain,  on  his  south  side.  He  saves 
every  drop  of  sap,  as  if  it  were  his  blood.  His 
trees  are  full  of  brandy.  See  his  cows,  his  horses, 
his  swine.  And  he,  the  piper  that  plays  the  jig 
which  they  all  must  dance,  biped  and  quadruped 
and  centipede,  is  the  plainest,  stupidest  harlequin 
in  a  coat  of  no  colors.  His  are  the  woods,  the 
waters,  hills,  and  meadows.  With  one  blast  of  his 
pipe,  he  danced  a  thousand  tons  of  gravel  from  yon 
der  blowing  sand-heap  to  the  bog-meadow,  where 
the  English  grass  is  waving  over  thirty  acres ;  with 
another,  he  winded  away  sixty  head  of  cattle  in 
the  spring,  to  the  pastures  of  Peterboro',  in  the 
hills. 

And  the  other's  ruins  ask  :  — 

"  Why  lies  this  hair  despised  now, 
Which  once  thy  care  and  art  did  show  ? 
Who  then  did  dress  the  much-loved  toy, 
In  spires,  globes,  angry  curls  and  coy, 
Which  with  skill'd  negligence  seemed  shed 
About  thy  curious,  wild  young  head  ? 
Why  is  this  rich,  this  pistic  nard 
Spilt,  and  the  box  quite  broke  and  marred  ?  "  . 


WALKS  AND   TALKS  CONTINUED.          149 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WALKS  AND   TALKS   CONTINUED. 


"Felix  ille  anirni,  divisque  simillimus  ipsis, 
Quern  non  mordaci  resplendeiis  gloria  fuoo 
Solicitat,  non  fastosi  mala  gaudia  luxus, 
Sed  tacitos  si  nit  ire  dies,  et  paupere  cultu 
Exigit  innocuse  silentia  vitae."  —  POLITIAN. 

"If  over  this  world  of  ours 
His  wings  my  phoenix  spread, 
How  gracious  o'er  land  and  sea 
The  soul-refreshing  shade! 

"Either  world  inhabits  he, 
Sees  oft  below  him  planets  roll; 
His  body  is  all  of  air  compact, 
Of  Allah's  love  his  soul. 

"  Courage,  Hafiz,  though  not  thine 
Gold  wedges  and  silver  ore, 
More  worth  to  thee  thy  gift  of  song, 
And  thy  clear  insight  more."  —  HAFIZ. 

"  The  wretched  pedlear  more  noise  he  maketh  to  cry  his  soap  than  a  rich 
icrchant  all  his  dear  worth  wares."  — A_NCBEN  BIWUE. 


FLINT'S  POND. 

O UPPOSE  we  go  to  Flint's. 

Agreed. 

That  country  with  its  high  summits  in  Lincoln 
is  good  for  breezy  days.  I  love  the  mountain  view 
from  the  Three  Friends'  Hill  beyond  the  pond, 
looking  over  Concord.  It  is  worth  the  while  to 


150  TEOREAU. 

see  the  mountains  in  our  horizon  once  a  day.  They 
are  the  natural  temples,  the  elevated  brows  of 
the  earth,  looking  at  which  the  thoughts  of  the 
beholder  are  naturally  elevated  and  sublime,  — 
etherealized.  I  go  to  Flint's  Pond,  also,  to  see  a 
rippling  lake  and  a  reedy  island  in  its  midst, 
Reed  Island.  A  man  should  feed  his  senses  with 
the  best  the  land  affords.  These  changes  in  the 
weather,  —  how  much  they  surprise  us  who  keep  no 
journal !  but  look  back  for  a  year,  and  you  will 
most  commonly  find  a  similar  change  at  the  same 
time,  like  the  dry  cap'sules  of  the  violets  along  the 
wood-road.  Temperatures,  climates,  and  even 
clouds,  may  be  counted,  like  flowers,  insects,  ani 
mals,  and  reptiles,  among  the  Constants,  —  inevi 
table  reappearances  ;  and  things  yet  further  typify 
each  other,  like  the  breeze  rushing  over  the  water 
fall. 

Nay,  do  not  pierce  me  with  your  regularity, 
though  you  might  say,  like  Peter  to  the  senti 
mental  lady,  "  Madam,  my  pigs  never  squeal." 

Not  so  :  learn  to  see  its  philosophy  in  each  thing. 
It  is  a  significant  fact,  that  though  no  man  is  quite 
well  or  healthy,  yet  every  one  believes,  practically, 
that  health  is  the  rule,  and  disease  the  exception ; 
and  each  invalid  is  wont  to  think  himself  in  a 
minority,  and  to  postpone  somewhat  of  endeavor 
to  another  state  of  existence.  But  it  may  be  some 


WALKS  AND   TALKS   CONTINUED.          151 

encouragement  to  men  to  know  that  in  this  re 
spect  they  stand  on  the  same  platform,  that  disease 
is  in  fact  the  rule  of  our  terrestrial  life,  and  the 
prophecy  of  a  celestial  life.  Where  is  the  coward 
who  despairs  because  he  is  sick?  Seen  in  this 
light,  our  life  with  all  its  diseases  will  look  healthy ; 
and,  in  one  sense,  the  more  healthy  as  it  is  the 
more  diseased. 

Upon  your  principle  "  I  am  thus  wet  because  I 
am  thus  dry." 

Disease  is  not  an  accident  of  the  individual,  nor 
even  of  the  generation,  but  of  life  itself.  In  some 
form,  and  to  some  degree  or  other,  it  is  one  of  the 
permanent  conditions  of  life.  It  is  a  cheering  fact, 
nevertheless,  that  men  affirm  health  unanimously, 
and  esteem  themselves  miserable  failures.  Here 
was  no  blunder.  They  gave  us  life  on  exactly 
these  conditions,  and  me  thinks  we  shall  live  it 
with  more  heart  when  we  clearly  perceive  that 
these  are  the  terms  on  which  we  have  it.  Life  is 
a  warfare,  a  struggle,  and  the  diseases  of  the  body 
answer  to  the  troubles  and  defects  of  the  spirit. 
Man  begins  by  quarrelling  with  the  animal  in  him, 
and  the  result  is  immediate  disease.  In  proportion 
as  the  spirit  is  more  ambitious  and  persevering,  the 
more  obstacles  it  will  meet  with.  It  is  as  a  seer 
that  man  asserts  his  disease  to  be  exceptional. 

Your  philosophers  and  their  tax  of  explanations 
remind  me  of  the  familiar  Snail :  — 


152  THOEEAU. 

"  Wise  emblem  of  our  politic  world, 
Sage  snail,  within  thine  own  self  curled ; 
Instruct  me  swiftly  to  make  haste, 
Whilst  thou  my  feet  go  slowly  past. 
Compendious  snail !  thou  seem'st  to  me 
Large  Euclid's  strict  epitome, 
That  big  still  with  thyself  dost  go, 
And  livest  an  aged  embryo." 

And  I  might  make  that  other  criticism  upon 
society  and  its  institutions :  — 

"  While  man  doth  ransack  man 
And  builds  on  blood,  and  rises  by  distress  ; 
And  th'  Inheritance  of  desolation  leaves 
To  great-expecting  hopes." 

Then  mark  how  man  and  his  affairs  fall  in  rounds  : 
the  railroad  keeps  time  like  one  of  Simon  Willard's 
clocks,  saturated  with  insurance.  How  much  the 
life  of  certain  men  goes  to  sustain,  to  make  re 
spected,  the  institutions  of  society !  They  are  the 
ones  who  pay  the  heaviest  tax.  They  are,  in  effect, 
supported  by  a  fund  which  society  possesses  for 
that  end,  or  they  receive  a  pension ;  and  their  life 
seems  to  be  a  sinecure,  but  it  is  not.  Unwritten 
\1  laws  are  the  most  stringent.  He  who  is  twice 
erratic  has  become  the  object  of  custom :  — 

"  There  are  whom  Heaven  has  blessed  with  store  of  wit. 
You  want  as  much  again  to  manage  it." 

Then  am  I  a  customer,  and  a  paying  one.     Mon 
taigne  took  much  pains  to  be  made  a  citizen   of 


\ 


WALKS  AND   TALKS   CONTINUED.          153 

Rome :  I  should  much  prefer  to  have  the  freedom 
of  a  peach-orchard,  —  once  a  great  part  of  this  town 
of  Lincoln  was  such,  —  or  of  some  ^plantations  of 
apples  and  pears  I  have  seen,  to  that  of  any  city. 
You  do  not  understand  values,  said  Sylvan.  I 
economize  every  drop  of  sap  in  my  trees,  as  if 
it  were  wine.  A  few  years  ago  these  trees  were 
whipsticks :  now  every  one  of  them  is  worth  a 
hundred  dollars.  Look  at  their  form  :  not  a  branch 
nor  a  twig  is  to  spare.  They  look  as  if  they  were 
arms  and  hands  and  fingers,  holding  out  to  you 
the  fruit  of  the  Hesperides.  Come,  see,  said  he, 
what  weeds  grow  behind  this  fence.  And  he 
brought  me  to  a  pear-tree.  Look,  he  said:  this 
tree  has  every  property  that  should  belong  to 
a  plant.  It  is  hardy  and  almost  immortal.  It 
accepts  every  species  of  nourishment,  andean  live 
almost  on  none,  like  a  date.  It  is  free  from  every 
form  of  blight.  Grubs,  worms,  flies,  bugs,  all 
attack  it.  It  yields  them  all  a  share  of  its  gener 
ous  juices ;  but,  when  they  left  their  eggs  on  its 
broad  leaves,  it  thickened  its  cuticle  a  little,  and 
suffered  them  to  dry  up  and  shook  off  the  vermin. 
It  grows  like  the  ash  Ygdrasil. 

A  bushel  of  wood-ashes  were  better  than  a  cart 
load  of  mythology.     If  I  did  not  love  Carlyle  for 
his  worship  of  heroes,  I  should  not  forgive  him  for 
setting  out  that  ash.     There  is  the  edge  of  the 
7* 


154  THOREAU. 

Forest  Late,  like  an  Indian  tradition,  gleaming 
across  the  pale-face's  moonshine.  From  this  Three 
Friends'  Hill  (when  shall  we  three  meet  again?) 
the  distant  forests  have  a  curiously  rounded  or  bow 
ery  look,  clothing  the  hills  quite  down  to  the  water's 
edge  and  leaving  no  shore  ;  the  ponds  are  like 
drops  of  dew,  amid  and  partly  covering  the  leaves. 
So  the  great  globe  is  luxuriously  crowded  without 
margin.  The  groundsel,  or  "  fire-weed,"  which 
has  been  touched  by  frost,  already  is  as  if  it  had 
died  long  months  ago,  or  a  fire  had  run  through  it. 
The  black  birches,  now  yellow  on  the  hill-sides, 
look  like  flames ;  the  chestnut-trees  are  burnished 
yellow  as  well  as  green.  It  is  a  beautifully  clear 
and  bracing  air,  with  just  enough  coolness,  full 
of  the  memory  of  frosty  mornings,  through  which 
all  things  are  distinctly  seen,  and  the  fields  look 
as  smooth  as  velvet.  The  fragrance  of  grapes  is 
on  the  breeze,  and  the  red  drooping  barberries 
sparkle  amid  their  leaves.  The  horned  (cornuta) 
utricularia  on  the  sandy  pond  shores  is  not  affected 
by  the  frost.  The  sumacs  are  among  the  reddest 
leaves  ;  the  witch-hazel  is  in  bloom,  and  the  crows 
fill  the  landscape  with  a  savage  sound.  The  mul 
lein,  so  conspicuous  with  its  architectural  spire, 
the  prototype  of  candelabrums,  must  be  remem 
bered.  We  might  relish  in  autumn  a  Berkshire 
brook,  which  falls,  and  now  beside  the  road,  and 


WALKS   AND    TALKS   CONTINUED.  155 

now  under  it,  cheers  the  traveller  for  miles  with  its 
loud  voice.  If  Herrick  be  the  best  of  English  poets, 
as  sometimes,  when  in  the  vein,  you  say  (a  true 
Greek),  this  landscape  could  give  him  all  he  needed, 
—  he  who  sang  a  cherry,  Julia's  hair  (we  have 
plenty  of  that),  Netterby's  pimple  (yes),  his  own 
hen  Partlet,  and  Ben  Jonson  (we  have  all  of 
these,  excepting  a  large  assortment  of  Ben  Jon- 
sons).  We  possess  a  wider  variety  here  among 
the  maples ;  but  the  poetry  and  the  prose  of  that 
age  was  more  solid  and  cordial. 

There  is  a  versifier  of  ours  who  has  made  some 
accurate  notices  of  our  native  things,  —  Street. 
I  fear  you  must  let  me  give  you  a  proof  of  this, 
nothing  of  a  Herrick.  Mate  me  if  you  will  these 
passages.  He  is  a  good  colorist. 

"  Yon  piny  knoll,  thick-covered  with  the  brown, 
Dead  fringes,  in  the  sunshine's  bathing  flood 
Looks  like  dark  gold. 

The  thicket  by  the  road-side  casts  its  cool 
Black  breadth  of  shade  across  the  heated  dust. 

The  thistle-downs,  through  the  rich, 
Bright  blue,  quick  float,  like  gliding  stars,  and  then 
Touching  the  sunshine  flash  and  seem  to  melt 
Within  the  dazzling  brilliance. 

Another  sunset,  crouching  low 

Upon  a  rising  pile  of  cloud, 
Bathes  deep  the  island  with  its  glow, 

Tlieu  shrinks  behind  its  gloomy  shroud. 


156  THOEEAU. 

.  .  .  the  little  violet 
Pencilled  with  purple  on  one  snowy  leaf. 

And  golden-rod  and  aster  stain  the  scene 
With  hues  of  sun  and  sky. 

The  last  butterfly 

Like  a  winged  violet,  floating  in  the  meek 
Pink-colored  sunshine,  sinks  his  velvet  feet 
Within  the  pillared  mullein's  delicate  down. 

Here  showers  the  light  in  golden  dots, 
There  sleeps  the  shade  in  ebon  spots. 

Floated  the  yellow  butterfly, 

A  wandering  spot  of  sunshine  by. 

.  .  .  the  buckwheat's  scented  snow/' 

Not  less  acute  and  retentive  his  ear :  — 

.  .  .  "that  flying  harp,  the  honey-bee. 

. .  .  the  spider's  clock 
Ticked  in  some  crevice  of  the  rock. 

The  light  click  of  the  milkweed's  bursting  pods. 

.  .  .  the  spider  lurks 

A  close-crouched  ball ;  out-darting  as  a  hum 
Dooms  its  trapped  prey,  and  looping  quick  its  threads 
Chains  into  helplessness  those  buzzing  wings. 
The  wood-tick  taps  its  tiny  muffled  drum 
To  the  shrill  cricket-fife." 

He  saw  peculiarities  no  one  else  describes,  —  exqui 
site  touches  of  creation  for  his  insight. 


WALKS  AND   TALKS  CONTINUED.  157 

"  The  whizzing  of  yon  humming-bird's  swift  wings, 
Spanning  gray,  glimmering  circles  round  its  shape. 

Yon  aster,  that  displayed 

A  brief  while  since  its  lustrous  bloom,  has  now 
Around  the  shells  that  multiply  its  life 
Woven  soft  downy  plumes. 

The  gossamer,  motionless,  hung  from  the  spray, 
Where  the  weight  of  the  dew-drops  had  torn  it  away, 
And  the  seed  of  the  thistle,  that  whisper  could  swing 
Aloft  on  its  wheel,  as  though  borne  on  a  wing, 
When  the  yellow-bird  severed  it,  dipping  across, 
Its  soft  plumes  unruffled  fell  down  on  the  moss. 

Lives  in  the  ripple  edging  flowery  shapes 
With  melting  lacework. 

.  .  .  from  the  earth  the  fern 

Thrusts  its  green,  close-curled  wheel,  the  downy  sprout 
Its  twin-leaves. 


Beside  yon  mullein's  braided  stalk. 

...  the  snail 
Creeps  in  its  twisted  fortress. 

...  the  twisting  cattle-path/ 

He  has  his  prettinesses :  — 

..."  the  holy  moon, 
A  sentinel  upon  the  steeps  of  heaven. 

A  cluster  of  low  roofs  is  prest 
Against  the  mountain's  leaning  breast. 


158  THOREAU. 

One  mighty  pine,  amid  the  straggling  trees, 
Lifts  its  unchanging  pyramid  to  heaven. 

He  marked  the  rapid  whirlwind  shoot, 
Trampling  the  pine-tree  with  its  foot. 

The  bee's  low  hum,  the  whirr  of  wings, 
And  the  sweet  songs  of  grass-hid  things." 

So  Vaughan  has  a  hint  of  this  insight :  — 

"  As  this  loud  brook's  incessant  fall 
In  streaming  rings  re-stagnates  all, 
Which  reach  by  course  the  bank,  and  then 
Are  no  more  seen. 

Shall  my  short  hour,  my  inch, 
My  one  poor  sand. 

Her  art,  whose  pensive  weeping  eyes 
Were  once  sin's  loose  and  tempting  spies. 

Heaven 

Is  a  plain  watch,  and  without  figures  winds 
All  ages  up. 

How  shrill  are  silent  tears  ! " 

But  Vaughan  is  like  the  interiors  of  Fra  An- 
gelico. 

Has  this  pond  an  outlet,  as  methinks  it  should, 
when  you  hold  the  reflections  caught  from  its 
waters  thus  precious  ? 

It  has  :  a  brook  runs  from  the   southerly  end. 


WALKS  AND   TALKS   CONTINUED.  159 

that  joins  another  from  Beaver  Pond,  and  chasing 
swiftly  down  fine  meadows,  amid  rocky  knolls  in 
Western,  goes  to  turn  water-wheels  at  Stony  Brook. 
Man  fits  into  Nature  like  a  seal  in  its  ring.  But 
enf oncer,  or  how  is  it  in  French  ?  Clap  down  in 
the  middle  of  to-day's  pudding,  and  eat  thereof,  — 
they  whip  lads  at  school  for  looking  off  their 
books ;  despatch  your  Sunday  plate  of  broth. 
The  parson  carries  the  sins  of  the  village  by  virtue 
of  his  cloth,  upon  his  back. 

BOUND   HILL  IN   SUDBUEY   MEADOWS. 

You  judge  it  is  three  miles  and  one-half  to  the 
point  where  you  propose  to  take  the  boat  ? 

Yes  :  in  the  rear  of  the  blacksmith's  house,  —  he 
who  calls  the  bittern  "  Baked  Plum-pudding  and 
Cow-poke,"  and  the  woodchuck  "  Squash-belly." 
A  composed,  moderate,  self-understanding  man  ; 
—  here's  the  pinnace  (as  our  neighbor  names  his 
candle-stick)  for  a  voyage  among  the  lilies.  Why 
look  ye  so  intently  at  the  bottom  ? 

I  commonly  sit,  not  in,  but  above,  the  water. 

Be  assured,  sir,  your  feet  are  not  wholly  in  the 
Concord.  'Tis  dry  enough  in  July,  outside,  —  push 
off ;  she  will  riot  sink  more  than  four  feet,  —  the 
depth  here.  Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have 
I  seen,  but  not  a  more  superb  one  than  this.  How 
in  its  glassy  folds  the  dark,  wine-colored  river  lays 


160  THOREA  U. 

its  unswept  carpet  across  the  fragrant  meadows. 
The  button-bushes  and  willows  resound  with  the 
gleeful  chorus  of  redwings  and  bobolinks,  w^hile 
the  courageous  king-bird  hovers  quivering  over  his 
nest.  If  there  is  any  one  thing  birds  do  like,  it  is 
to  sing  in  sunshiny  mornings.  Why,  this  is  the 
mouth  of  the  Pantry  Brook :  it  comes  out  of  the 
mysterious  interstices  of  Sudbury,  where  the  mud 
is  up  to  your  middle,  and  where  some  of  Sam 
Haynes's  folks  died.  I  wish  I  had  a  photograph 
of  Sam,  the  fisherman,  as  the  man  did  when  he  was 
told  that  Croesus  was  the  richest  man  who  ever 
lived  :  if  he  beat  Sam's  stories,  he  must  have  been 
rich.  And  there  is  Round  Hill,  the  river  bending, 
yet  not  before  we  anchor  in  the  Port  of  Lilies,  per 
fumed  love-tokens  floating  in  a  lapsing  dream  of 
turquoise  and  gold,  like  Cleopatra's  barge ;  some 
experiments  in  rose-tints,  too,  were  tried  with  that 
dear  creature,  the  water-lily,  and  did  well. 

When  you  thus  eulogize  Nature,  it  reminds  me 
how  great  an  advantage  he  possesses  who  can 
turn  a  verse  over  all  the  human  race.  I  read  in 
Wood's  Athense  Oxonienses  a  score  of  pages  of 
learned  nobodies,  of  whose  once  odoriferous  repu 
tations  not  a  trace  remains  in  the  air ;  and  then  I 
come  to  the  name  of  some  Carew  or  Herrick,  Suck 
ling  or  Chapman,  as  fresh  and  lustrous  as  these 
floating  sunlight  creams.  As  a  poet  says :  — 


WALKS  AND    TALKS    CONTINUED.  161 

"  There  are  beggars  in  Iran  and  Araby, 
Said  was  hungrier  than  all ; 
Men  said  he  was  a  fly 
That  came  to  every  festival, 
Also  he  came  to  the  mosque 
In  trail  of  camel  and  caravan, 
Out  from  Mecca  to  Isphahan;  — 
Northward  he  went  to  the  snowy  hills, — 
At  court  he  sat  in  the  grave  divan. 
His  music  was  the  south  wind's  sigh, 
His  lamp  the  maiden's  downcast  eye, 
And  ever  the  spell  of  beauty  came 
And  turned  the  drowsy  world  to  flame. 
By  lake  and  stream  and  gleaming  hall, 
And  modest  copse,  and  the  forest  tall, 
Where'er  he  went  the  magic  guide 
Kept  its  place  by  the  poet's  side. 
Tell  me  the  world  is  a  talisman, 
To  read  it  must  be  the  art  of  man ; 
Said  melted  the  days  in  cups  like  pearl, 
Served  high  and  low,  the  lord  and  the  churl; 
Loved  harebells  nodding  on  a  rock, 
A  cabin  hung  with  curling  smoke, 
And  huts  and  tents,  nor  loved  he  less 
Stately  lords  in  palaces, 
Fenced  by  form  and  ceremony." 


There,  on  Round  Hill,  is  a  true  woodman's 
hut.  The  hill  is  low,  but  from  its  position  enjoys 
a  beautiful  outlook  upon  Sudbury  meadows.  Yes : 
this  is  a  good  place  to  fish.  Can  you  keep  worms 
in  your  mouth,  like  Indians  ?  Maybe  they  won't 
bite. 

Which,  —  fish,  worms,  or  Indians  ?  Things  that 
are  done  it  is  needless  to  speak  about,  or  remon- 


162  THOREAU. 

strate  against :  things  that  are  past  are  needless  to 
blame. 

PETEE    OB   BOSE. 

I  fancied  the  saying,  that  man  was  created  a  lit 
tle  lower  than  the  angels,  should  have  been,  a  little 
lower  than  the  animals  ! 

Does  it  not  flavor  of  puerile  conceit,  that  fancy  ? 

The  conceit  of  man  is  dark ;  but,  as  we  go  to 
Goose-shore  swimming-place,  on  the  Assabet,  with 
Peter  running  before,  I  feel  sorry  that  Goethe 
introduced  a  black  dog  in  Faust,  as  the  kernel  of 
the  elephant.  And  the  wild  animals  are  supe 
rior  to  the  tame,  as  the  Indian  treads  before  the 
civilized  man.  Observe  Peter  capering  through 
bush  and  briar,  plunging  into  pool  or  stream,  with 
his  smiling  tail,  and  he  sweats  through  his  nose, 
au  revoir!  What  dull  pedants  the  mirth-provok 
ing  creatures  consider  us !  and  how  more  than 
tame  poor  Cowper's  three  tame  hares  may  have 
deemed  him,  in  his  nightcap,  made  by  Mrs.  Un- 
win !  Peter  catches  no  cold,  though  he  wets  his 
feet,  and  never  has  the  doctor.  As  the  Indians 
amused  the  Jesuits  in  Canada,  by  sitting  all  day  in 
a  nude  manner,  frozen  to  the  ice,  and  fishing  com 
placently  through  holes  in  it,  as  if  lolling  on  feather 
beds,  so  I  have  known  Peter  take  a  nap  all  night 
on  a  snow-bank  in  January. 


WALKS  AND   TALKS   CONTINUED.          163 

There,  he 's  at  the  base  of  that  mud-hole  ;  Lyell 
was  never  deeper  in  geology  than  he  is. 

I  saw  a  man,  a  few  days  since,  working  by  the 
river  with  a  horse  carting  dirt,  and  the  horse  and 
his  relations  to  him  struck  me  as  very  remarkable. 
There  was  the  horse,  a  mere  animated  machine, 
though  his  tail  was  brushing  off  the  flies,  his  whole 
condition  subordinated  to  man's,  with  no  tradition 
(perhaps  no  instinct)  in  him  of  a  time  when  he 
was  wild  and  free,  —  completely  humanized.  No 
contract  had  been  made  with  him  that  he  should 
have  the  Saturday  afternoons,  or  the  Sundays,  or 
any  holidays,  his  independence  never  being  recog 
nized  ;  it  being  now  quite  forgotten,  both  by  man 
and  horse,  that  the  horse  was  ever  free.  For  I  am 
not  aware  that  there  are  any  wild  horses,  known 
surely  not  to  be  descended  from  tame  ones.  He 
was  assisting  that  man  to  pull  down  that  bank  and 
spread  it  over  the  meadow,  only  keeping  off  the 
flies  with  his  tail,  and  stamping  and  catching  a 
mouthful  of  grass  or  leaves  from  time  to  time,  on 
his  own  account ;  all  the  rest  for  man.  It  seemed 
hardly  worth  while  that  he  should  be  animated  for 
this.  It  was  plain  that  the  man  was  not  educating 
the  horse,  not  trying  to  develop  his  nature,  but 
merely  getting  work  out  of  him,  — 

"  Extremes  are  counted  worst  of  all." 


164  THOREA  U. 

That  mass  of  animated  matter  seemed  more  com 
pletely  the  servant  of  man  than  any  inanimate. 
For  slaves  have  their  holidays ;  a  heaven  is  con 
ceded  to  them  (such  as  it  is)  ;  but  to  the  horse, 
none.  Now  and  forever  he  is  man's  slave.  The 
more  I  considered,  the  more  the  man  seemed  akin 
to  the  horse,  only  his  was  the  stronger  will  of  the 
two  ;  for  a  little  further  on  I  saw  an  Irishman  shov 
elling,  who  evidently  was  as  much  tamed  as  the 
horse.  He  had  stipulated  that  to  a  certain  extent 
his  independence  should  be  recognized ;  and  yet  he 
was  really  but  a  little  more  independent.  What  is 
a  horse  but  an  animal  that  has  lost  its  liberty ;  and 
has  man  got  any  more  liberty  for  having  robbed 
the  horse,  or  has  he  lost  just  as  much  of  his  own, 
and  become  more  like  the  horse  he  has  robbed  ? 
Is  not  the  other  end  of  the  bridle,  too,  coiled 
around  his  OAvn  neck  ?  hence  stable-boys,  jockeys, 
and  all  that  class  that  are  daily  transported  by  fast 
horses.  There  he  stood,  with  his  oblong,  square 
figure  (his  tail  mostly  sawed  off),  seen  against  the 
water,  brushing  off  the  flies  with  the  stump,  braced 
back,  while  the  man  was  filling  the  cart. 

"  The  ill  that 's  wisely  feared  is  half  withstood,  — 
He  will  redeem  our  deadly,  drooping  state." 

I  regard  the  horse  as  a  human  being  in  a  hum 
ble  state  of  existence.  Virtue  is  not  left  to  stand 
alone.  He  who  practises  it  will  have  neighbors. 


WALKS  AND    TALKS    CONTINUED.  165 

Man  conceitedly  names  the  intelligence  and  in 
dustry  of  animals  instinct,  and  overlooks  their  wis 
dom  and  fitness  of  behavior.  I  saw  where  the 
squirrels  had  carried  off  the  ears  of  corn  more 
than  twenty  rods  from  the  corn-field,  to  the  woods. 
A  little  further  on,  beyond  Hubbard's  Brook,  I  saw 
a  gray  squirrel  with  an  ear  of  yellow  corn,  a  foot 
long,  sitting  on  the  fence,  fifteen  rods  from  the 
field.  He  dropped  the  corn,  but  continued  to  sit 
on  the  rail  where  I  could  hardly  see  him,  it  being 
of  the  same  color  with  himself,  which  I  have  no 
doubt  he  was  well  aware  of.  He  next  went  to  a 
red  maple,  where  his  policy  was  to  conceal  him 
self  behind  the  stem,  hanging  perfectly  still  there 
till  I  passed,  his  fur  being  exactly  the  color  of 
the  bark.  When  I  struck  the  tree,  and  tried  to 
frighten  him,  he  knew  better  than  to  run  to  the 
next  tree,  there  being  no  continuous  row  by  which 
he  might  escape  ;  but  he  merely  fled  higher  up,  and 
put  so  many-leaves  between  us  that  it  was  difficult 
to  discover  him.  When  I  threw  up  a  stick  to 
frighten  him,  he  disappeared  entirely,  though  I 
kept  the  best  watch  I  could,  and  stood  close  to  the 
foot  of  the  tree.  . 

They  are  wonderfully  cunning  ! 

That  is  all  you  can  say  for  them.  There  is  some 
thing  pathetic  to  think  of  in  such  a  life  as  an  aver 
age  Norfolk  man  may  be  supposed  to  live,  drawn 


166  TEOEEAU. 

out  to  eighty  years  ;  and  he  has  died,  perchance, 
and  there  is  nothing  but  the  mark  of  his  cider-mill 
left.  Here  was  the  cider-mill,  and  there  the  or 
chard,  and  there  the  hog-pasture,  and  so  men  lived 
and  ate,  and  drank,  and  passed  away  like  vermin. 
Their  long  life  was  mere  duration.  As  respectable 
is  the  life  of  the  wood-chuck,  which  perpetuates 
its  race  in  the  orchard  still.  That  is  the  life  of 
these  select  men  spun  out.  They  will  be  forgotten 
in  a  few  years,  even  by  such  as  themselves,  as  ver 
min.  They  will  be  known  like  Tucker,  who  is 
said  to  have  been  a  large  man,  who  weighed  250, 
who  had  five  or  six  heavy  daughters  who  rode  to 
Suffolk  meeting-house  on  horseback,  taking  turns  ; 
they  were  so  heavy  that  one  could  only  ride 
at'once.  What,  then,  would  redeem  such  a  life  ? 
We  only  know  that  they  ate  and  drank,  and  built 
barns  and  died,  and  were  buried,  and  still,  per 
chance,  their  tombstones  cumber  the  ground,  — 
"  time's  dead  low  water."  There  never  has  been 
a  girl  who  learned  to  bring  up  a  child,  that  she 
might  afterwards  marry. 

Perhaps  you  depreciate  humanity,  and  overes 
timate  somewhat  else.  A  whimsical  person  said 
once,  he  should  make  a  prayer  to  the  chance  that 
brought  him  into  the  world.  He  fancied  that 
when  the  child  had  escaped  out  of  the  womb,  he 
cried,  "  I  thank  the  bridge  that  brought  me  safe 


WALKS  AND    TALKS  CONTINUED.  167 

over:  I  would  not  for  ten  worlds  take  the  next 
one's  chance!"  Will  they,  one  of  these  days,  at 
Fourierville,  make  boys  and  girls  to  order  and 
pattern  ?  I  want,  Mr.  Christmas-office,  a  boy  be 
tween  No.  17  and  No.  134,  half-and-half  of  both, 
or  you  might  add  a  trace  of  113.  I  want  a  pair  of 
little  girls  like  91,  only  a  tinge  more  of  the  Swede, 
and  a  tinge  of  the  Moorish.  And  then  men  are 
so  careless  about  their  really  good  side.  James 
Baker  does  not  imagine  that  he  is  a  rich  man,  yet 
he  keeps  from  year  to  year  that  lordly  park  of  his, 
by  Fairhaveri  Pond,  lying  idly  open  to  all  comers, 
wi  thout  crop  or  rent,  like  another  Lord  Breadalbane, 
with  its  hedges  of  Arcady,  its  sumptuous  lawns 
and  slopes,  its  orchard  and  grape-vines,  the  mirror 
at  its  foot,  and  the  terraces  of  Hollo  way  on  the 
opposite  bank.  Yet  I  know  he  would  reprove  me, 
as  the  poet  has  written  :  — 

"  Said  Saadi,  —  When  I  stood  before 
Hassan  the  camel-driver's  door, 
I  scorned  the  fame  of  Timour  brave,  — 
Timour  to  Hassan  was  a  slave. 
In  every  glance  of  Hassan's  eye 
I  read  rich  years  of  victory. 
And  I,  who  cower  mean  and  small 
In  the  frequent  interval, 
When  wisdom  not  with  me  resides, 
Worship  toil's  wisdom  that  abides  ! 
I  shunned  his  eyes,  —  the  faithful  man's, 
I  shunned  the  toiling  Hassan's  glance." 

Work,  yes;  and  good  conduct  additional.     You 


* 

168  THOEEAU. 

have  been,  so  I  have  read,  a  schoolmaster.  I  trust 
you  advised  your  neophytes  to  keep  company  with 
none  but  men  of  learning  and  reputation ;  to  be 
have  themselves  upon  the  place  with  candor,  cau 
tion,  and  temperance  ;  to  avoid  compotations  ;  to 
go  to  bed  in  good  time,  and  rise  in  good  time  ;  to 
let  them  see  you  are  men  that  observe  hours  and 
discipline ;  to  make  much  of  yourself,  and  want 
nothing  that  is  fit  for  you.  The  life  of  Csesar  him 
self  has  no  greater  example  for  us  than  our  own. 
We  must  thrust  against  a  door  to  know  whether 
it  is  bolted  against  us  or  not.  Where  there  is  no 
difficulty,  there  is  no  praise ;  and  every  human  ex 
cellence  must  be  the  product  of  good  fortune,  im 
proved  by  hard  work  and  genius. 


TEE  LATTER   YEAR.  169 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE   LATTER   YEAE. 

"Come,  sleep!    Oh,  sleep!  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
The  indifferent  j  udge  between  the  high  and  low." 

SIDNEY. 

"You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night 
That  poorly  satisfy  our  eyes, 
More  by  your  number  than  your  light; 
You  common  people  of  the  skies, 
What  are  you  when  the  moon  s-hall  rise?  " 

H.  WOTTON. 

.    .    .    "in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
"With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade." 

SHIRLEY. 

"  Astrochiton  Heracles,  King  of  fire,  Chorus-leader  of  the  world,  Sun, 
Shepherd  of  mortal  life,  who  easiest  long  shadows,  riding  spirally  the 
•whole  heaven  with  burning  disk,  rolling  tlie  twelve-monthed  year,  the 
son  of  Time,  thou  performest  orbit  after  orbit."— 


"  It  is  not  but  the  tempest  that  doth  show 
The  seaman's  cunning,  but  the  field  that  tries 
The  captain's  courage."  —  BEN  JONSON. 

~^\O  you  observe  how  long  the  cultivated  trees 
hold  their  leaves,  such  as  apples,  cherries, 
and  peaches  ?  As  if  they  said,  "  We  can  longer 
maintain  our  privileges  than  yonder  uncultured 
generation."  The  black  willows  stand  bare  along 
the  eds'es  of  the  river  ;  the  balm-of-Gileads  and  a 


170  TEOREAU. 

few  triumphant  elms  yet  hang  out  their  dusky 
banners  on  the  outward  walls  of  the  latter  year. 
That  Indian  summer,  too,  made  its  tranquil  appear 
ance,— put  in  leg-bail  for  the  greasy  old  redskins. 
After  the  verdure  goes,  after  the  harvest  of  the 
year  is  gathered  in,  there  is  a  stationary  period,  — 
the  year  travels  on  a  paved  road.  It  is  with  leaves 
as  with  fruits  and  woods  and  animals  :  when  they 
are  mature,  their  different  characters  appear.  That 
migration  of  the  birds  is  a  cunning  get-off.  The 
most  peaceful,  the  sunniest  autumn  day  in  New 
England  has  a  blue  background,  like  some  culti 
vated  person  at  the  bottom  of  whose  palaver  is 
ice.  I  hear  the  barking  of  a  red  squirrel  whose 
clock  is  set  a-going  by  a  little  cause  in  cool 
weather,  when  the  spring  is  tense,  and  a  great 
scolding  and  ado  among  the  jays.  The  house 
wives  of  Nature  wish  to  see  the  rooms  properly 
cleaned  and  swept,  before  the  upholsterer  comes  and 
nails  down  his  carpet  of  snow.  The  swamp  burns 
along  its  margin  with  the  scarlet  berries  of  the 
black  alder,  or  prinos ;  the  leaves  of  the  pitcher- 
plant  (which  old  Josselyn  called  Hollow-leaved  Lav- 
ender)  abound,  and  are  of  many  colors,  from  plain 
green  to  a  rich  striped  yellow,  or  deep  red. 

"  The  hickory-shell,  cracked  open  by  its  fall, 
Shows  its  ripe  fruit,  an  ivory  ball,  within  ; 
And  the  white  chestnut-burr  displays  its  sheath 
White  glistening  with  its  glossy  nuts  below. 


THE  LATTER   YEAE.  171 

Scattered  around,  the  wild  rose-bushes  hang, 
Their  ruby  buds  tipping  their  thorny  sprays  ; 
The  everlasting's  blossoms  seem  as  cut 
In  delicate  silver,  whitening  o'er  the  slopes  ; 
The  seedy  clematis,  branched  high,  is  robed 
With  woolly  tufts  ;  the  snowy  Indian-pipe 
Is  streaked  with  black  decay  ;  the  wintergreen 
Offers  its  berries ;  and  the  prince's-pine, 
Scarce  seen  above  the  fallen  leaves,  peers  out, 
A  firm,  green,  glossy  wreath." 

Now  you  allude  to  it,  does  not  a  deception  like 
that  of  the  climate  pervade  the  men  ?  The  down 
right  cheer  of  old  England  struggling  through  its 
brogue,  the  dazzling  stiletto  affliction  of  Italy  and 
France,  with  us  are  lacking.  Like  our  climate, 
and  our  scale  of  classes,  the  sentiment  of  New 
England  is  changeable.  It  is  one  of  the  year's 
expiring  days,  one  of  his  death-bed  days.  The 
children,  playing  at  the  school-house  a  mile  off,  the 
rattle  of  distant  carts,  farmers'  voices  calling  to 
their  cattle,  cocks  crowing  in  unknown  barn-yards, 
every  sound  speeds  through  the  attenuated  air,  as 
the  beat  of  the  death-tick^echoes  in  the  funeral- 
chamber!  The  trees  are  as  bare  as  my  purse. 
How  significant  is  the  effect  of  these  blue  smokes, 
as  if  they  came  from  some  olfactory  altar  of  the 
Parsees,  imploring  the  protection  of  yon  threadbare 
luminary !  Methinks  is  something  divine  in  the 
culinary  art,  —  the  silent  columns  of  light- blue 
vapor  rising  slowly.  Beneath  them  many  a  rusty 
kettle  sings :  — 


172  THOREAU. 

"  To  intersoar  unseen  delights  the  more." 

I  cannot  doubt  but  the  range  of  the  thermometer 
invades  the  morals  of  the  people.  The  puritan 
element  survives  in  our  cultivated  conservatism,  if 
there  is  gilding  on  the  chain.  Certain  families  re 
solve  to  divide  themselves  from  the  mass  by  ingen 
ious  marriages.  And  talent  tries  to  keep  its  head 
above  low-water,  yet  the  agreeable  orators,  who 
go  to  Plymouth  and  delectate  the  mass,  if  you 
come  at  them  in  parlors,  are  simple  creatures,  and 
our  great  historian  took  the  weight  of  his  waistcoat 
before  he  went  forth. 

'Tis  well  he  was  not  forced  to  conceal  the  rav 
elled  sleeve  of  care  by  buttoning  up  his  outer 
garment.  A  few  years  past,  yonder  breezy  repre 
sentative  may  have  been  an  usher  in  a  school. 

Where,  doubtless,  filligree  was  taught. 

FROSTY    WEATHER. 

Winter  is  fairly  broached.  When  the  year  be 
comes  cold,  then  we  know  how  the  pine  and 
cypress  are  the  last  to  lose  their  leaves. 

I  should  say  he  is  in  such  a  condition  that  tap 
ping  is  impossible :  — 

"  The  moon  has  set,  the  Pleiades  are  gone  ; 
'Tis  the  mid-noon  of  night ;  the  hour  is  by, 
And  yet  I.  watch  alone." 

How  hollow  echoes  the  frozen  road,  under  the 


THE  LATTER  TEAR.  173 

wheels  of  the  teamster's  wagon  I  The  muzzles  of 
the  patient  steers  are  fringed  in  ice,  and  their 
backs  whitened  with  hoar-frost.  For  all  the  sins:- 

O 

ing-birds,  the  chickadees  remain ;  the  sawing  and. 
scraping  of  the  jay  and  the  crows  do  remotely 
pertain  to  music.  A  single  night  snaps  the  year 
in  two.  In  the  declaration  of  Tang,  it  is  said,  O 
sun,  when  wilt  thou  expire  ?  We  will  die  with 
thee. 

"  Sweet  mother  !    I  can  weave  the  web  no  more, 
So  much  I  love  the  youth,  so  much  I  lingering  love." 

Shadows  hang  like  flocks  of  ink  from  the  pitch- 
pines  ;  the  winter  sunset,  the  winter  twilight,  falls 
slowly  down  and  congeals  the  helpless  valleys  ;  the 
sky  has  a  base  of  lustrous  apple-green,  and  then 
flows  softly  up  to  the  zenith  that  tender  roseate 
flush,  like  a  virgin's  cheek  when  she  is  refusing 
the  youth.  Is  winter  a  cheat?  "  Neighbor,"  as 
Margaret  says  when  she  finds  Faust  is,  "  lend  me 
your  smelling-bottle." 

The  weather  forms  its  constitution  in  our  peo 
ple,  and  they  are  equal  to  it.  As  we  catch  a  mor 
sel  of  warmth  behind  the  sunny  rock,  I'll  sing 
you  a  song  about  old  King  Cole :  — 

TEAMSTERS'  SONG. 

How  the  wind  whistled  !  the  snow,  how  it  flew! 
The  teamsters  knew  not  if  it  were  still  or  no, 


174  THOREAU. 

And  the  trains  stood  puffing,  all  kept  away  back, 
And  the  drifts  lay  deep  o'er  the  railroad  track ; 
While  the  snow  it  flew,  and  the  wind  it  blew, 
And  the  teamsters  bawled,  —  what  a  jolly  crew  ! 

% 

Their  caps  are  all  dressed  with  the  muskrat  fur, 
But  the  colder  the  weather  (the  truth  I  aver), 
Still  less  do  they  turn  to  the  soft,  silky  lining ; 
Their  ears  are  of  stone,  —  'tis  easy  divining,  — 
And  their  hearts  full  of  joy,  while  the  snow  whirls  fast, 
And  the  lash  of  the  North  swings  abroad  on  the  blast. 

And  the  s^y  is  steel  on  the  white  cloud  flecked, 
And  the  pines  are  ghosts  in  their  snow-wreaths  decked, 
And  the  stormy  surge  of  the  gale  is  rising 
While  the  teamster  enjoys  the  tempest  surprising, 
With  his  lugging-sled  and  his  oxen  four ; 
When  the  wind  roars  the  hardest,  he  bawls  all 
the  more. 

Did  you  never  admire  the  steady,  silent,  windless 
fall  of  the  snow  in  some  lead-colored  day,  silent 
save  the  little  ticking  of  the  flakes  as  they  touch 
the  twigs  ?  It  is  chased  silver,  moulded  over  the 
pines  and  oak-leaves.  Soft  shades  hang  like  cur 
tains  along  the  closely  draped  wood-paths.  Frozen 
apples  become  little  cider-vats.  The  old,  crooked 
apple-trees,  frozen  stiff  in  the  pale  shivering  sun 
light  that  appears  to  be  dying  of  consumption, 
gleam  forth  like  the  heroes  of  one  of  Dante's  cold 


THE  LATTER   TEAR.  175 

hePs  ;  we  would  not  mind  a  change  in  the  mercury 
of  the  dream.  The  snow  crunches  under  the  foot, 
the  chopper's  axe  rings  funereally  through  the 
tragic  air.  At  early  morn  the  frost  on  button- 
bushes  and  willows  was  silvery,  and  every  stem 
and  minutest  twig  and  filamentary  weed  became 
a  silver  thing,  while  the  cottage-smokes  came  up 
salmon-colored  into  that  oblique  day.  At  the  base 
of  ditches  were  shooting  crystals,  like  the  blades 
of  an  ivory-handled  pen-knife,  and  rosettes  and 
favors  fretted  of  silver  on  the  flat  ice.  The  little 
cascades  on  the  brook  were  ornamented  with  trans 
parent  shields,  and  long  candelabrums,  and  sperma 
ceti-colored  fools'  caps,  and  plaited  jellies, -and  white 
globes,  with  the  black  water  whirling  along  trans 
parently  underneath.  The  sun  comes  out,  and 
all  at  a  glance  rubies,  sapphires,  diamonds,  and 
emeralds  start  into  intense  life  on  the  angles  of  the 
snow-crystals. 

You  remember  that  Dryden  says,  common-sense 
is  a  rule  in  every  thing  but  matters  of  faith  and 
revelation. 

Because  he  lived  in  Will's  coffee-house.  He 
would  have  had  an  ideal  sense,  had  he  experienced 
a  New  England  winter.  Frost  is  your  safest  shoe- 
leather  in  the  marshes.  How  red  the  androm- 
eda-leaves  have  turned  !  Snow  and  ice  remind  us 
of  architecture.  No  lathe  ever  made  such  hand 
some  scrolls  and  friezes. 


176  THOEEAU. 

And  to  the  arctic  man  these  cold  matters  make 
paradise.  As  Kudlago,  the  Eskimo,  who  was 
going  home  aboard  ship  from  warmer  climes,  cried, 
in  his  dying  moment,  "  Teiko-se  Ko,  teiko-se  Ko?" 
—  Do  you  see  ice,  do  you  see  ice  ? 

By  fall  and  fount,  by  gleaming  hill, 
And  sheltered  farm-house  still  and  gray, 

By  broad,  wild  marsh  and  wood-set  rill, 
Dies  cold  and  sere  the  winter's  day. 
Oh,  icy  sunlight,  fade  away ! 

Thou  pale  magnificence  of  fate ! 
Thy  arch  is  but  the  loitering  cloud, 

A  tall  pine-wood  thy  palace-gate, 
The  alder-buds  thy  painted  crowd, 
Some  far-off  road  thy  future  proud, 
Much  cold  security  allowed. 

Art  and  architecture,  I  suppose,  you  consider 
the  same  thing.  If  I  visited  galleries  where  pict 
ures  are  preserved,  I  would  go  now,  though  Haw 
thorne  says  he  would  as  soon  see  a  basilisk  as  one 
of  the  old  pictures  at  the  Boston  Athenaeum.  I 
think  the  fine  art  of  Goethe  and  company  very 
dubious ;  and  it  is  doubtful  whether  all  this  talk 
about  prints  of  the  old  Italian  school  means  any 
thing  (Giotto  and  the  rest).  It  may  do  very  well 
for  idle  gentlemen. 


THE  LATTER   TEAR.  177 

I  reply,  there  is  a  fire  to  every  smoke.  There 
were  a  few  Anakim  who  gave  the  thing  vogue  by 
their  realism.  If  Odin  wrought  in  iron  or  in  ships, 
these  worked  as  rancorously  in  paint.  Michel 
Angelo,  Ribiera  (the  man  that  made  the  skull  and 
the  monk,  who  is  another  skull  looking  at  it),  and 
the  man  who  made  in  marble  the  old  Torso  Her 
cules  ;  the  Phidias,  man  or  men,  who  made  the 
Parthenon  friezes,  had  a  drastic  style,  which  a 
blacksmith  or  a  stone-mason  would  say  was  starker 
than  their  own.  And  I  adhere  to  Van  Waagen's 
belief,  that  there  is  a  pleasure  from  works  of  art 
which  nothing  else  can  yield.  Yes,  we  should 
have  a  water-color  exhibition  in  Boston ;  but  I 
should  like  better  to  have  water-color  tried  in  the 
art  of  writing.  Let  our  troubadours  have  one  of 
these  Spanish  slopes  of  the  dry  ponds  or  basins 
which  run  from  Walden  to  the  river  at  Fairhaven, 
in  their  September  dress  of  color,  under  a  glower 
ing  sky,  —  the  Walden  sierras  given  as  a  theme,  — 
and  they  required  to  daguerreotype  that  in  good 
words  :  — 

"  I  long  to  talk  with  some  old  lover's  ghost 
Who  died  before  the  god  of  love  was  born." 

I  will  do  my  best ;  but,  as  we  were  speaking  of 
architecture,  remember  that  this  art  consists  in 
the  imitation  of  natural  Principles,  and  not  like 
the  other  arts  in  the  imitation  of  natural  Forms.  I 

8*  L 


178  THOREAU. 

never  know  the  reason  why  our  people  have  not 
reached  some  appropriate  style  of  architecture.  In 
Italy  and  Switzerland  and  England,  the  picturesque 
seems  to  spring  forth  from  the  soil,  in  the  shapes 
of  buildings,  as  well  seasoned  as  its  trees  and  flow 
ers  themselves.  But  look  at  the  clapboard  farm 
house  we  are  passing!  Is  there  not  a  needless 
degree  of  stiffness  and  too  little  ornamentation  ? 

Moderate  your  criticism,  my  dear  Gilpin  :  utility 
lies  at  the  bottom  of  our  village  architecture  ;  the 
structure  springs  out  of  that.  This  simple  edifice, 
created  out  of  white  pine-boards  and  painted  white  ; 
this  case  of  shingles  and  clapboards  appears  to  its 
owner  —  who  built  it  and  lives  in  it  —  any  thing 
but  ugly  or  unpicturescjiie  :  so  far  from  it,  it  fits 
him  like  a  shell.  Our  climate  has  something  to 
answer  for  with  respect  to  this  scarcity  of  ornament 
and  beauty.  The  subtle  influence  of  the  weather 
crops  out  in  the  very  clapboards,  as  it  does  also  in 
the  garments  of  the  farmer,  who  gets  their  benefits  : 
the  untamable  burning  summer,  the  fatally  pene 
trative  winter,  with  warm  places  sometimes  inter 
calated,  when  the  honey-bees  come  forth  and  the 
black  ploughed  fields  shine  like  a  horse  after  he 
has  been  rubbed  down.  Brick  and  stone  are  too 
damp,  and  the  wall-paper  will  mould  and  the  cellar 
run  with  water,  even  in  the  dryest  wooden  house, 
unless  it  be  warmed  throughout,  so  pungent  isHhe 


THE   LATTER   YEAR.  179 

condensing  essence  of  winter.  Then,  if  you  put 
on  outside  adorning,  it  will  be  warred  upon  to  such 
a  degree  by  the  elements  as  to  be  scarcely  appro 
priate  to  the  plain  fancies  of  our  farmers:  the  face 
of  the  house  is  only  a  mirror  of  the  climate.  The 
roof  should  have  sufficient  steepness  to  carry  off 
rain  and  snow  readily,  with  as  few  breaks  and 
angles  as  possible  ;  the  windows  not  too  large,  — 
in  fact,  warmth  and  coolness  mast,  in  one  of  these 
New  England  houses,  be  consulted  at  the  same 
time,  situated  as  they  are  in  an  excessive  climate. 
On  the  sea-coast  the  old  houses  are  usually  one 
story  high,  thus  offering  the  least  surface  to  the 
wind.  The  low  cottage,  all  on  one  floor,  will  not 
keep  us  cool  in  summer ;  and  the  high  Italian  style 
is  a  comb  of  ice  in  February.  Then  I  know  that 
Mr.  Gilpin  censures  the  location  of  the  farm-build 
ings  so  close  upon  the  road,  and  that  he  wishes  to 
set  them  at  the  end  of  an  avenue  a  long  distance 
from  the  entrance-gate  ;  that  he  equally  detests 
the  position  of  the  barn  within  a  few  rods  of  the 
house,  —  privacy,  good  taste,  refinement,  as  he 
says,  are  thus  all  sacrificed  at  one  blow.  Our  far 
mers  cut  the  timber  for  their  mansions  in  their  own 
woods,  shape  it  themselves,  and  bring  it  upon  the 
ground.  Utility,  economy,  comfort,  and  use,  —  a 
dr}r,  warm  cellar,  a  sweet,  airy  milk-room,  a  large 
wood-shed,  a  barn  with  its  cellars  and  accommoda- 


180  THOEEAU. 

tions,  and  all  in  the  most  solid  style,  —  these  matters 
make  the  study  of  the  farmer.  He  desires  a  house 
to  live  in,  not  to  look  at.  He  must  have  a  pump 
in  the  kitchen  and  one  in  the  cow-yard ;  and  the 
kitchen,  indeed,  needs  to  be  much  considered.  It 
should  be  warm,  airy,  well-lighted,  connected  with 
cellar,  shed,  yard,  road,  —  and  in  fact  it  is  a  room  in 
use  most  of  the  time.  The  barn  and  house  must 
be  placed  with  reference  to  the  farm  itself :  near  a 
•village,  school,  church,  store,  post-office,  station, 
and  the  like.  All  this,  it  is  true,  has  little  to  do 
with  the  fine  art  of  architecture.  Our  native  demo 
crat,  whose  brains,  boots,  and  bones  are  spent  in 
composing  a  free  republic  and  earning  money,  is 
growing  up  to  the  fine  arts,  even  if  at  present  utility 
sways  the  balance. 

This  creature,  whose  portrait  you  have  thus  fan 
cifully  drawn,  looks  like  a  mere  machine  for  gravi 
tating  to  pork  and  potatoes,  an  economical  syllogism. 
I  say  beauty  must  have  an  equal  place  with  utility, 
if  not  a  precedent.  Your  farmer  shirks  architecture 
and  landscape-gardening,  with  one  leg  in  the  barn 
and  the  other  in  the  kitchen,  and  the  compost-heap 
in  the  midst ;  and  whose  highest  ambition  is  to  have 
a"  patent-leather  top  to  his  carriage.  Go  to !  you 
libel  my  jolly  countryman.  He  is  no  such  thieving 
rat  as  this,  with  a  singed  tail  and  his  ears  snipped 
off.  The  duke  king  of  T'se  had  a  thousand 


THE  LATTER   YEAR.  181 

teams,  each  of  four  horses ;  but  on  the  day  of 
his  death  the  people  did  not  praise  him  for  a 
single  virtue. 

O  brother  Gilpin  !  hearken  ere  you  die.  Those 
inveterate  prejudices  of  yours  for  Vitruvius  and 
Imgo  Jones  have  left  you  too  little  sympathy  with 
the  industrious,  able  yeoman  of  New  England.  I 
have  but  drawn  a  few  lines  of  his  portrait.  The 
climate  is  close,  the  soil  difficult,  the  clapboard  edi 
fice  not  alluring  in  its  aspect.  Let  this  be  so  :  the 
creator  of  it,  the  citizen,  stands  up  like  a  king  in 
the  midst  of  the  local  penury.  How  well  he  can 
write  and  cipher !  how  intelligent !  He  receives 
the  news  from  all  lands  each  day  in  his  paper, 
and  has  his  monthly  journals  and  lyceum  lectures. 
There  is  a  sweetness,  a  native  pride,  in  the  man, 
that  overtops  the  rugged  necessities  of  his  con 
dition,  and  shoots  its  fine  branches  heavenward. 
His  healthful  economic  industry,  and  that  practical 
education  derived  from  a  constant  use  of  natural 
elements,  and  a  life-long . struggle  against  difficul 
ties,  renders  him  incredibly  expert  and  capable  of 
seizing  all  expedients  whereby  he  can  better  his 
conditions.  The  New  England  farmer  has  proved 
that  an  independent  man,  a  democratic  citizen,  on 
a  poor  soil  and  in  unfavorable  positions,  can  over 
come  the  outward  obstacles.  He  has  solved  the 
problem  of  democracy,  and  must  give  place  to  some 


182  THOREAU. 

new  forms  of  society,  when  all  the  arts  shall  be 
employed  in  the  construction  of  the  estate. 

"  Born  nature  yields  each  day  a  brag  which  we  now  first  behold, 
And  trains  us  on  to  slight  the  new  as  if  it  were  the  old; 
And  blest  is  he  who  playing  deep,  yet  haply  asks  not  why, 
Too  busy  with  the  crowded  day  to  fear  to  live  or  die." 

WALDEN. 

I  believe  you  take  some  note  of  the  seasons. 
Pray,  what  is  this  ?  On  our  old  path  to  Walden 
Pond  I  cannot  really  decide  whether  I  or  the  world 
have  had  the  opiate.  Assuredly  it  must  be  autumn, 
if  it  is  not  summer.  How  tacitly  the  pond  sleeps  ! 
These  pine-stumps,  after  the  pitch  is  dry,  make 
excellent  seats.  The  semi-clouded  sky  images  itself 
so  truthfully  in  the  slumbering  water  that  sky  and 
water  form  one  piece,  and  the  glancing  swallows 
flying  above  that  invisible  surface  seem  to  be  play 
ing  with  their  own  images  reversed.  Not  with  the 
very  utmost  scrutiny  can  I  distinguish  between  the 
twain.  And  so  you  think  the  superiorities  of  the 
Englishman  grow  out  of  his  insular  climate.  Shake 
speare's  beauties  were  never  cradled  on  the  rack  of 
a  New  English  summer.  If  our  landscape  stew 
with  heat,  the  brain  becomes  another  stew-pan. 
As  most  of  our  days  are  unutterably  brilliant,  I 
enjoy  the  few  scattered  gray  and  lowering  ones, 
half-shade  and  half-shine,  the  negative  days :  — 


THE  LATTER   TEAR.  183 

"  In  the  turbulent  beauty 
Of  a  gusty  autumn  day, 
Poet  on  a  sunny  headland 
Sighed  his  soul  away. 
Farms  the  sunny  landscape  dappled, 
Swan-down  clouds  dappled  the  farms, 
Cattle  lowed  in  hollow  distance 
Where  far  oaks  outstretched  their  arms. 
Sudden  gusts  came  full  of  meaning, 
All  too  much  to  him  they  said, 
South  winds  have  long  memories, 
Of  that  be  none  afraid. 
I  cannot  tell  rude  listeners 
Half  the  tell-tale  south  wind  said, 
'Twould  bring  the  blushes  of  yon  maples 
To  a  man  and  to  a  maid." 

The  golden  loveliness  of  autumn,  —  was  that 
your  phrase  ? 

Rather  fine,  methinks,  for  the  like  of  me  ! 

A  pretty  rustic  wreath  could  be  braided  of  wild 
berries  now,  including  such  as  the  dark  blue  magi 
cal  berries  of  the  red-osier  cornel,  the  maple-leaved 
viburnum  with  its  small  bluish-black  berries,  and, 
though  so  fragile,  we  might  add,  for  the  passing 
hour,  the  purple  might  of  the  great  elderberry 
clusters.  Why  not  wreathe  wild  grapes,  prinos, 
and  smilax  berries  together,  and  the  berries  of  the 
andromeda?  Then  the  purple-stemmed  golden-rod 
and  the  blue  gentian's  flowers  should  not  be  omit 
ted  from  this  votive  offering  to  Ceres ;  and  it 
should  be  suspended  from  a  white-maple  whence 
we  could  steal  a  glimpse  through  the  charming 


184  THOEEAU. 

Septembrian  sunflood  with  its  sense  of  fulness  and 
everlasting  life,  over  the  quivering  river  that  is 
blue  and  sunny,  silvery,  golden,  and  azure  at  once, 
transparent  olives  and  olive-greens  glazed  to  a  com 
plete  polish,  and  bounded  by  the  softest  shimmer, 
not  transparent.  I  have  been  reading  a  report  on 
herbaceous  plants.  The  mere  names  of  reeds  and 
grasses,  of  the  milkweeds  and  the  mints,  the  gen 
tians,  the  mallows  and  trefoils,  are  poems.  Erige- 
ron,  because  it  grows  old  early,  is  the  old  man  of 
the  spring ;  Pyrola  unnbellata  is  called  chimaphila, 
lover  of  winter,  since  its  green  leaves  look  so 
cheerful  in  the  snow ;  also  called  prince's-pine. 
The  plantain  (  Plantago  major)',  which  follows  man 
wherever  he  builds  a  house,  is  called  by  the  Indians 
white-man's  foot ;  and  I  like  well  to  see  a  mother 
or  one  of  her  girls  stepping  outside  of  the  door 
with  a  lamp,  for  its  leaf,  at  night,  to  dress  some 
slight  wound  or  inflamed  hand  or  foot.  My  old 
pet,  the  Liatris,  acquires  some  new  interest  from 
being  an  approved  remedy  for  the  bite  of  serpents, 
and  hence  called  rattlesnake's-master.  Fire-weed, 
or  Hieraeium,  springs  up  abundantly  on  burnt  land. 
The  aromatic  fields  of  dry  Grnaphalium  with  its 
pearly  incorruptible  flowers,  and  the  sweet-flags 
with  their  bayonet-like  flash,  wave  again,  thanks  to 
this  dull  professor,  in  my  memory,  on  even  a  cold 
winter's  morning.  Even  the  naming  of  the  local- 


THE  LATTER   YEAE.  185 

ities  —  ponds,  shady  woods,  wet  pastures,  and  the 
like  —  comfort  us.  But  this  heavy  country  professor 
insults  some  of  my  favorites,  —  the  well-beloved  Les- 
pedeza,  for  instance  ;  the  beautiful  Epigcea,  or  May 
flower,  —  pride  of  Plymouth  hermits.  The  hills 
still  bear  the  remembrance  of  sweet  berries ;  and  I 
suppose  the  apple  or  the  huckleberry  to  have  this 
comfortable  fitness  to  the  human  palate,  because 
they  are  only  the  palate  inverted :  one  is  man  eating, 
and  the  other  man  eatable.  The  Mikania  scandens, 
with  its  purplish-white  flowers,  now  covers  the 
button-bushes  and  willows,  by  the  side  of  streams ; 
and  the  large-flowered  bidens  {chrysanthemoides), 
and  various-colored  potygoriums,  white  and  reddish 
and  red,  stand  high  among  the  bushes  and  weeds  by' 
the  river-side  ;  and,  in  modest  seclusion,  our  scarlet 
imperialists,  the  lordly  Cardinals. 

You  have  a  rare  season  in  your  shanty  by  the 
pond. 

I  have  gained  considerable  time  for  study  and 
writing,  and  proved  to  my  satisfaction  that  life  may 
be  maintained  at  less  cost  and  labor  than  by  the 
old  social  plan.  Yet  I  would  not  insist  upon  any 
one's  trying  it  who  has  not  a  pretty  good  sup 
ply  of  internal  sunshine  ;  otherwise  he  would  have, 
I  judge,  to  spend  too  much  of  his  time  in  fighting 
with  his  dark  humors.  To  live  alone  comfortably, 
we  must  have  that  self-comfort  which  rays  out  of 
Nature,  —  a  portion  of  it  at  least. 


186  THOREAU. 

I  sometimes  feel  the  coldest  days 
A  beam  upon  the  snow-drift  thrown, 

As  if  the  sun's  declining  rays 

Were  with  his  summer  comforts  sown. 

The  icy  marsh,  so  cold  and  gray, 

Hemmed  with  its  alder  copses  brown, 

The  ruined  walls,  the  dying  day, 

Make  in  my  dream,  a  landscape  crown. 

And  sweet  the  walnuts  in  the  fall, 
And  bright  the  apples'  lavished  store ; 

Thus  sweet  my  winter's  pensive  call, 
O'er  cold,  gray  marsh,  o'er  upland  hoar. 

And  happier  still  that  we  can  roam 
Free  and  untrammelled  o'er  the  laud, 

And  think  the  fields  and  clouds  are  home, 
Nor  forced  to  press  some  stranger's  hand. 


MULTUM  IN  PAEVO.  187 

CHAPTER  XI. 
MULTUM  IN  PABVO. 


"  There's  nothing  left 
Unto  Andrugio  but  Andrugio :   and  that 
Not  mischief,  force,  distress,  nor  hell  can  take; 
Fortune  my  fortunes  not  my  mind  shall  shake." 

MABSTON. 

"  There,  your  Majesty,  what  a  glimpse,  as  into  infinite  extinct  Conti 
nents,  filled  with  ponderous,  thorny  inanities,  invincible  nasal  drawling  of 
didactic  Titans,  and  the  awful  attempt  to  spin,  on  all  manner  of  wheels, 
road-harness  out  of  split  cobwebs :  Hoom!  Hoom-m-m!  Harness  not  to 
be  had  on  those  terms."  — CABLYLE. 

"  My  dears,  you  are  like  the  heroines  of  romance,  — jewels  in  abundance, 
but  scarce  a  rag  to  your  backs."  —  MADAME  DK  SKVIGNB. 


A  S  already  noticed,  Thoreau  believed  that  one 
of  the  arts  of  life  was  to  make  the  most 
out  of  it.  He  loved  the  multum  in  parvo,  or  pot- 
luck  ;  to  boil  up  the  little  into  the  big.  Thus,  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  saying,  —  Give  me  healthy 
senses,  let  me  be  thoroughly  alive,  and  breathe 
freely  in  the  very  flood-tide  of  the  living  world. 
But  this  should  have  availed  him  little,  if  he  had 
not  been  at  the  same  time  copiously  endowed  with 
the  power  of  recording  what  he  imbibed.  His 
senses  truly  lived  twice. 

Many  thousands  of  travellers  pass  under  the  tel 
egraph-poles,  and  descry  in  them  only  a  line  of 


188  THOBEAU. 

barked  chestnuts :  to  our  poet-naturalist  they 
came  forth  a  Dodona's  sacred  grove,  and  like  the 
old  Grecian  landscapes  followed  the  phantasy  of 
our  Concord  Orpheus,  twanging  on  their  road. 

u  As  I  went  under  the  new  telegraph  wire,  I 
heard  it  vibrating  like  a  harp  high  "over  head:  it 
was  as  the  sound  of  a  far-off  glorious  life,  a  super 
nal  life  which  came  down  to  us  and  vibrated  the 
lattice-work  of  this  life  of  ours,  —  an  JEolian  harp. 
It  reminded  me,  I  say,  with  a  certain  pathetic  mod 
eration,  of  what  finer  and  deeper  stirrings  I  was 
susceptible.  It  said :  Bear  in  mind,  child,  and 
never  for  an  instant  forget,  that  there  are  higher 
planes  of  life  than  this  thou  art  now  travelling 
on.  Know  that  the  goal  is  distant,  and  is  upward. 
There  is  every  degree  of  inspiration,  from  mere 
fulness  of  life  to  the  most  rapt  mood.  A  human 
soul  is  played  on  even  as  this  wire :  I  make  my 
own  use  of  the  telegraph,  without  consulting  the 
directors,  like  the  sparrows,  which,  I  observe,  use 
it  extensively  for  a  perch.  Shall  I  not,  too,  go  to 
this  office  ?  The  sound  proceeds  from  near  the 
posts,  where  the  vibration  is  apparently  more  rapid. 
It  seemed  to  me  as  if  every  pore  of  the  wood  was 
filled  with  music.  As  I  put  my  ear  to  one  of  the 
posts,  it  labored  with  the  strains,  as  if  every  fibre 
was  affected,  and  being  seasoned  or  timed,  rear 
ranged  according  to  a  new  and  more  harmonious 


MULTUM  IN  PARVO.  189 

law :  every  swell  and  change  and  inflection  of 
tone  pervaded  it,  and  seemed  to  proceed  from  the 
wood,  the  divine  tree  or  wood,  as  if  its  very  sub 
stance  was  transmuted. 

"  What  a  recipe  for  preserving  wood,  to  fill  its 
pores  with  music !  How  this  wild  tree  from  the 
forest,  stripped  of  its  bark  and  set  up  here,  rejoices 
to  transmit  this  music.  When  no  melody  proceeds 
from  the  wire,  I  hear  the  hum  within  the  entrails  of 
the  wood,  the  oracular  tree,  acquiring,  accumulat 
ing  the  prophetic  fury.  The  resounding  wood,  — 
how  much  the  ancients  would  have  made  of  it  I 
To  have  had  a  harp  on  so  great  a  scale,  girdling  the 
very  earth,  and  played  on  by  the  winds  of  every 
latitude  and  longitude,  and  that  harp  were  (so  to 
speak)  the  manifest  blessing  of  Heaven  on  a  work 
of  man's.  Shall  we  not  now  add  a  tenth  Muse  to 
those  immortal  Nine,  and  consider  that  this  inven 
tion  was  most  divinely  honored  and  distinguished, 
upon  which  the  Muse  has  thus  condescended  to 
smile,  — this  magic  medium  of  communication  with 
mankind  ?  To  read  that  the  ancients  stretched  a 
wire  round  the  earth,  attaching  it  to  the  trees  of 
the  forest,  on  which  they  sent  messages  by  one 
named  Electricity,  father  of  Lightning  and  Magnet 
ism,  swifter  far  than  Mercury, —  the  stern  commands 
of  war  and  news  of  peace ;  and  that  the  winds 
caused  this  wire  to  vibrate,  so  that  it  emitted 


190  THOREAU. 

a  harp-like  and  ^Eolian  music  in  all  the  lands 
through  which  it  passed,  as  if  to  express  the  satis 
faction  of  the  gods  in  this  invention  !  And  this  is 
fact,  and  yet  we  have  attributed  the  instrument  to 
no  god.  I  hear  the  sound  working  terribly  within. 
When  I  put  rny  ear  to  it,  anon  it  swells  into  a 
clear  tone,  which  seems  to  concentrate  in  the  core 
of  the  tree,  for  all  the  sound  seerns  to  proceed  from 
the  wood.  It  is  as  if  you  had  entered  some  world- 
cathedral,  resounding  to  some  vast  organ.  The 
fibres  of  all  things  have  their  tension,  and  are 
strained  like  the  strings  of  a  lyre.  I  feel  the  very 
ground  tremble  underneath  my  feet,  as  I  stand  near 
the  post.  The  wire  vibrates  with  great  power,  as 
if  it  would  strain  and  rend  the  wood.  What  an 
awful  and  fateful  music  it  must  be  to  the  worms 
in  the  wood.  No  better  vermifuge  were  needed. 
As  the  wood  of  an  old  Cremona,  its  every  fibre, 
perchance,  harmoniously  transposed  and  educated 
to  resound  melody,  has  brought  a  great  price,  so 
methinks  these  telegraph-posts  should  bear  a  great 
price  with  musical  instrument-makers.  It  is  pre 
pared  to  be  the  material  of  harps  for  ages  to 
come ;  as  it  were,  put  a-soak  in  and  seasoning  in 
music." 

"  How  could  the  patient  pine  have  known 

The  morning  breeze  would  come  ? 
-    Or  humble  flowers  anticipate 

The  insect's  noonday  hum  ?  " 


MULTUM  IN  PARVO.  191 

Much  more  was  he,  who  drew  this  ravishing  noise 
off  a  stale  post,  a  golden  wire  of  communication 
with  the  blessed  divinities !  With  poetic  insight 
he  married  practical  perception,  avoiding  that  fly 
ing  off  in  space  like  the  writings  of  some  who  pur 
sued  the  leading  of  the  Rev.  Bismiller,  where  there 
is  the  theatrical  breadth  of  a  pasteboard  sky,  with 
not  much  life  rolling  in  it, 

"  But  troops  of  smoothing  people  that  collaud 
All  that  we  do." 

Or,  as  he  observes,  "  Not  till  after  several  months 
does  an  infant  find  its  hands,  and  it  may  be  seen  look 
ing  at  them  with  astonishment,  holding  them  up  to 
the  light ;  and  so  also  it  finds  its  toes.  How  many 
faculties  there  are  which  we  have  never  found  !  We 
want  the  greatest  variety  within  the  smallest  com 
pass,  and  yet  without  glaring  diversity,  and  we  have 
it  in  the  color  of  the  withered  oak-leaves."  He 
speaks  of  fleets  of  yellow  butterflies,  and  of  the  gray 
squirrels  on  their  winding  way,  on  their  uiiweariable 
legs.  Distant  thunder  is  the  battle  of  the  air.  "  A 
cow  looking  up  at  the  sky  has  an  almost  human  or 
wood-god,  fawn-like  expression,  and  reminded  me 
of  some  frontispiece  to  Virgil's  Bucolics.  When 
the  red-eye  (  Vireo)  ceases,  then,  I  think,  is  a  cri 
sis.  The  pigeons,  with  their  quivet,  dashed  over 
the  Duganne  desert."  .  .  .  When  the  snow-birds 
flew  off,  their  wave  actually  broke  over  him,  as  if  he 


192  TEOEEAU. 

were  a  rock.  He  sees  two  squirrels  answering  one 
to  the  other,  as  it  were,  like  a  vibrating  watch- 
spring, —  they  withdrew  to  their  airy  houses.  .  .  . 
"  When  turning  my  head  I  looked  at  the  wil 
lowy  edges  of  Cyanean  meadow,  and  onward  to 
the  sober-colored  but  fine-grained  Clam-shell  hills, 
about  which  there  was  no  glitter,  I  was  inclined 
to  think  that  the  truest  beauty  was  that  which  sur 
rounded  us,  but  which  we  failed  to  discern  ;  that 
the  forms  and  colors  which  adorn  our  daily  life, 
not  seen  afar  in  the  horizon,  are  our  fairest  jew 
elry.  The  beauty  of  Clam-shell  hill  near  at  hand, 
with  its  sandy  ravines,  in  which  the  cricket  chirps, 
—  this  is  an  occidental  city,  not  less  glorious  than  we 
dream  of  in  the  sunset  sky. 

"  At. Clematis  Brook  I  perceive  that  the  pods  or 
follicles  of  the  common  milkweed  (Ascle/nas  sy- 
riaca)  now  point  upward.  They  are  already  burst 
ing.  I  release  some  seeds  with  the  long,  fine  silk 
attached  :  the  fine  threads  fly  apart  at  once  (open 
with  a  spring),  and  then  ray  themselves  out  into  a 
hemispherical  form,  each  thread  freeing  itself  from 
its  neighbor,  and  all  reflecting  rainbow  or  prismatic 
tints.  The  seeds  beside  are  furnished  with  wings, 
which  plainly  keep  them  steady,  and  prevent  their 
whirling  round.  I  let  one  go,  and  it  rises  slowly 
and  uncertainly  at  first,  now  driven  this  way,  then 
that,  by  currents  which  I  cannot  perceive,  and  I 


MULTUM  IN  PARVO.  193 

fear  it  will  shipwreck  against  the  neighboring  wood  ; 
but  no !  as  it  approaches  it,  it  surely  rises  above  it, 
and  then  feeling  the  strong  north  wind  it  is  borne 
off  rapidly  in  the  opposite  direction,  ever  rising 
higher  and  higher,  and  tossing  and  heaved  about 
with  every  fluctuation  of  the  gale,  till  at  a  hundred 
feet  above  the  earth,  and  fifty  rods  off,  steering 
south,  I  lose  sight  of  it.  I  watched  this  milkweed- 
seed,  for  the  time,  with  as  much  interest  as  his 
friends  did  Mr.  Lauriat  disappearing  in  the  skies. 
How  many  myriads  go  sailing  away  at  this  season, 
—  high  over  hill  and  meadow  and  river,  to  plant 
their  race  in  new  localities,  —  on  various  tacks,  until 
the  wrind  lulls,  who  can  tell  how  many  miles ! 
And  for  this  end  these  silken  streamers  have  been 
perfecting  all  summer,  snugly  packed  in  this  light 
chest,  a  prophecy  not  only  of  the  fall,  but  of  future 
springs.  Who  could  believe  in  the  prophecies  of  a 
Daniel  or  of  Miller,  that  the  world  would  end  this 
summer,  while  one  milkweed  with  faith  matured 
its  seeds  ?  Densely  packed  in  a  little  oblong  chest, 
armed  with  soft?  downy  prickles,  and  lined  with  a 
smooth,  silky  lining,  lie  some  hundreds  of  seeds, 
pear-shaped,  or  like  a  steelyard's  poise,  which  have 
derived  their  nutriment  through  a  band  of  ex 
tremely  fine,  silken  threads,  attached  by  their  ex 
tremities  to  the  core.  At  length,  when  the  seeds 
are  matured  and  cease  to  require  nourishment  from 
9  M 


194  THOREAU. 

the  parent  plant,  being  weaned,  and  the  pod  with 
dryness  and  frost  bursts,  the  extremities  of  the  silken 
thread  detach  themselves  from  the  core,  and  from 
being  the  conduits  of  nutriment  to  the  seed  become 
the  buoyant  balloon  which,  like  some  spiders'  webs, 
bear  the  seeds  to  new  and  distant  fields.  They 
merely  serve  to  buoy  up  the  full-fed  seeds,  far  finer 
than  the  finest  thread.  Think  of  the  great  variety 
of  balloons  which,  at  this  season,  are  buoyed  up  by 
similar  means.  I  am  interested  in  the  fate,  or  suc 
cess,  of  every  such  venture  which  the  autumn 
sends  forth." 

A  well-known  writer  says  he  looked  at  the  pres 
ent  moment  as  a  man  does  upon  a  card  upon  which 
he  has  staked  a  considerable  sum,  and  who  seeks 
to  enhance  its  value  as  much  as  he  can  without 
exaggeration.  Thoreau  had  a  like  practice,  —  the 
great  art  is  judiciously  to  limit  and  isolate  one's 
self,  and  life  is  so  short  we  must  miss  no  oppor 
tunity  of  giving  pleasure  to  one  another.  No 
doubt  our  author's  daily  writing,  his  careful  obser 
vation  in  his  own  mind,  lay  as  a  mass  of  gold,  out 
of  which  he  should  coin  a  good  circulating  medium 
for  the  benefit  of  other  minds.  Nothing  which  has 
not  sequence  is  of  any  value  in  life.  And  he  held 
to  that  oft-repeated  dictum,  "  Whatever  is  very 
good  sense  must  have  been  common-sense  in  all 
times.  I  fairly  confess  I  have  served  myself  all 
I  could  by  writing:  that  I  made  use  of  the  judg- 


MULTUM  IN  PAEVO.  195 

merit  of  authors,  dead  and  living.  If  I  have  writ 
ten  well,  let  it  be  considered  it  is  what  no  man 
can  do  without  good  sense,  —  a  quality  that  ren 
ders  one  not  only  capable  of  being  a  good  writer, 
but  a  good  man.  To  take  more  pains  and  employ 
more  time  cannot  fail  to  produce  more  complete 
pieces.  The  ancients  constantly  applied  to  art, 
and  to  that  single  branch  of  an  art  to  which  their 
talent  was  most  powerfully  bent ;  and  it  was  the 
business  of  their  lives  to  correct  and  finish  their 
works  for  posterity :  — 

"  Nor  Fame  I  slight,  nor  for  her  favors  call ; 
She  comes  unlook'd  for,  if  she  comes  at  all.  — 
Who  pants  for  glory  finds  but  short  repose." 

Then  thinkers  are  so  varied.  The  Mahometans 
taught  fate  in  religion,  and  that  nothing  exists  that 
does  not  suppose  its  contrary.  Some  believe  that 
cork-trees  grow  merely  that  we  may  have  stoppers 
to  our  bottles.  St.  Augustine,  in  his  City  of 
God,  mentions  a  man  who  could  perspire  when  he 
pleased.  Napoleon  classed  the  Old  and  New  Tes 
taments,  and  the  Koran,  under  the  head  of  politics. 
One  says,  a  fact  of  our  lives  is  valuable,  not  accord 
ing  as  it  is  true,  but  as  it  is  significant.  Thoreau 
would  scarcely  have  upheld  this.  But  he  could 
assert  "  that  no  greater  evil  can  happen  to  any  one 
than  to  hate  reasoning.  Man  is  evidently  made 
for  thinking :  this  is  the  whole  of  his  dignity,  and 


196  THOEEAU. 

the  whole  of  his  merit.     To  think  as  he  ought  is  the 
whole  of  his  duty." 

After  our  dear  lover  of  Nature  had  retired  from 
Walden,  a  rustic  rhymer  hung  up  on  the  walls  of 
his  deserted  sanctuary  some  irregular  verses,  as  an 
interpretation :  — 

WALDEN   HERMITAGE. 

Who  bricked  this  chimney  small 

I  well  do  know ; 

Know  who  spread  the  mortar  on  the  wall, 

And  the  shingles  nailed  through  ; 

Yes,  have  seen  thee, 

Thou  small,  rain-tinted  hermitage ! 

And  spread  aside  the  pitch-pine  tree 

That  shaded  the  brief  edge 

Of  thy  snug  roof,  — 

'Twas  water-proof! 

Have  seen  thee,  Walden  lake  ! 
Like  burnished  glass  to  take 
With  thy  daguerreotype 
Each  cloud,  each  tree, 
More  firm  yet  free. 
Have  seen  and  known,  — 
Yes,  as  I  hear  and  know 
Some  echo's  faintest  tone. 
All,  all  have  fled, 
Man,  and  cloud,  and  shed. 

"  What  man  was  this, 
Who  thus  could  build, 


MULTUM  IN  PAEVO.  197 

Of  what  complexion, 

At  what  learning  skilled  ? 

That  the  lake  I  see  down  there, 

Like  a  glass  of  simmering  air?" 

So  might  that  stranger  say. 

To  him  I  might  reply,  — 

"  You  ask  me  for  the  man.     Hand  me  yesterday, 

Or  to-morrow,  or  a  star  from  the  sky : 

More  mine  are  they  than  he  ; 

But  that  he  lived,  I  tell  to  thee. 

"  Might  I  say 
He  was  brave, 
As  a  cold  winter's  day, 
Or  the  waves  that  toss  their  spray ; 
Brave, 

So  is  the  lion  brave, 
And  the  wind  that  braids  a  song 
On  the  corded  forest's  gong. 

"  That  man's  heart  was  true, 
As  the  sky  in  living  blue, 
And  the  old  contented  rocks 
That  the  mountains  heap  in  blocks. 
Wilt  thou  dare  to  do  as  he  did, 
Dwell  alone  and  bide  thy  time? 
Not  with  lies  be  over-rid, 
And  turn  thy  griefs  to  rhyme  ? 
True  !  do  you  call  him  true  ? 
Look  upon  the  eaglet's  eye, 
Wheeled  amid  the  freezing  blue, 
In  the  unfathomable  sky, 
With  cold  and  blasts  and  light  his  speed  to  try ! 


198  TEOEEAU. 

«  And  should  I  tell  thee  that  this  man  was  good  ? 
Never  thought  his  neighbor  harm, 
Sweet  was  it  where  he  stood, 
Sunny  all,  and  warm. 
Good? 

So  the  rolling  star  seems  good, 
That  miscalculates  not, 
Nor  sparkles  a  jot 
Out  of  its  place, 
Period  of  unlettered  space." 

Now  might  once  more  some  stranger  ask, 
I  should  reply : 
"  Why  this  man  was  high 
And  lofty  is  not  his  task, 
Nor  mine,  to  tell : 
Springs  flow  from  the  invisible. 
But  on  this  shore  he  used  to  play, 
There  bis  boat  he  hid  away, 
And  where  has  this  man  fled  to-day  ? 
Mark  the  small,  gray  hermitage 
Touch  yon  curved  lake's  sandy  edge ; 
The  pines  are  his  you  firmly  see, 
All  before  the  cliff  so  high. 

"  He  never  goes,  — 
But  must  thou  come, 
As  the  wind  blows, 
He  sits  surely  at  home. 
In  his  eye  the  thing  must  stand, 
In  his  thought  the  world  command ; 
As  a  clarion  shrills  the  morn, 
On  his  arms  the  world  be  borne. 


MULTUM  IN  PARVO.  199 

Beat  with  thy  paddle  on  the  boat, 
Midway  the  lake,  —  the  wood  repeats 
The  ordered  blow,  the  echoing  note 
Has  ended  in  the  ear,  yet  its  retreats 
Contain  more  possibilities ; 
And  in  this  Man  the  nature  lies 
Of  woods  so  green, 
And  lakes  so  sheen, 
And  hermitages  edged  between." 

A  literary  disciple,  whose  shanty  stood  on  Lon 
don  streets,  thus  vents  Ms  history :  "I  am  quite 
familiar  at  the  Chapter  Coffee-house,  and  know  all 
the  geniuses  there.  A  character  is  now  unneces 
sary:  an  author  carries  his  character  in  his  pen. 
Good  God,  how  superior  is  London  to  that  despica 
ble  Bristol !  The  poverty  of  authors  is  a  common 
observation,  but  not  always  a  true  one.  No  author 
can  be  poor  who  understands  the  arts  of  book 
sellers.  [But  he  don't.]  No  :  it  is  my  pride,  my 
damned,  native,  unconquerable  pride,  that  plunges 
me  into  distraction."  And  another  asks,  "  What 
could  Stephen  Duck  do?  what  could  Chatterton 
do  ?  Neither  of  them  had  opportunities  of  enlarg 
ing  their  stock  of  ideas.  No  man  can  coin  guineas 
but  in  proportion  as  he  has  gold."  Even  that 
touch  upon  booksellers'  arts  did  not  prevent  our 
brother  from  starving  to  death  three  months  after 
in  London. 


200  THOREAU. 

Thoreau  would  not  have  said,  with  Voltaire, 
"  Ah,  croyez-moi,  Verreur  a  son  merite" — believe 
me,  sin  has  something  worthy  in  it,  —  which  is  the 
same  as  Goethe's  "  Even  in  God  I  discover  defects ;  " 
but  he  would  recognize  the  specific  value  of  events. 
The  directions  of  men  are  singular.  He  knew  one 
in  Sudbury  who  used  to  fat  mud-turtles,  having  a 
great  appetite  for  them ;  another  used  to  eat  those 
imposthurnes  on  wild  rose-bushes,  which  are  made 
by  worms  and  contain  an  ounce  of  maggots  each. 
But  why  criticise  poor  human  nature,  when  a  black 
snake  that  has  just  laid  her  eggs  on  a  tussock 
in  the  meadow  (some  were  hatching,  and  some 
hatched),  upon  being  alarmed,  swallows  them  all 
down  in  a  lump  for  safe  keeping,  and  no  doubt  pro 
duces  them  afresh  at  a  convenient  time  ?  Nature,  as 
Thoreau  said,  does  have  her  dawn  each  day ;  and  her 
economical  code  of  laws  does  not  consult  taste  or  high 
art,  as  in  the  above  salvation  of  so  inconvenient  a 
morsel  as  a  snake's  offspring.  He  sometimes  caught 
sight  of  the  inside  of  things  by  artificial  means  ;  and 
notices  that  the  young  mud-turtle  is  a  hieroglyphic 
of  snappishness  a  fortnight  before  it  is  hatched,  like 
the  virtue  of  bottled  cider.  "When  the  robin 
ceases,  then  I  think  is  an  exit,  .  .  .  the  concert  is 
over."  He  could  see  a  revolution  in  the  end  of  a 
bird's  song,  and  used  working  abroad  like  the 
artist  who  painted  out-of-doors,  and  believed  that 


MULTUM  IN  PARVO.  201 

lights  and  a  room  were  absurdities,  and  that  a  pict 
ure  could  be  painted  anywhere.  So  must  a  man 
be  moral  everywhere,  and  he  must  not  expect  that 
Nature  will  take  a  scrubbing-brush  and  clean  her 
entries  for  his  steps,  seeing  how  sentimental  a 
fellow  is  our  brother. 

The  Bombyx  pini,  the  pine  spider,  the  most 
destructive  of  all  forest  insects,  is  infested,  so  says 
Ratzeburg,  by  thirty-five  parasitical  ichneumonidcB. 
And  infirmity  that  decays  the  wise  doth  ever  make 
the  better  fool. 

"  Not  to  know  at  large  of  things  remote 
From  use,  obscure  and  subtle,  but  to  know 
That  which  before  us  lies  in  daily  use." 

The  love  of  our  poet-naturalist  for  the  open  air, 
his  hypyethral  character,  has  been  dwelt  upon. 
Such  was  his  enjoyment  in  that  outward  world,  it 
seemed  as  if  his  very  self  became  a  cast  of  nature, 
with  the  outlines  of  humanity  fair  and  perfect ;  but 
that  intensity  of  apprehension  did,  with  certain 
minds,  accuse  him  of  egotism.  Yet  not  self,  but 
rather  that  creation  of  which  he  was  a  part,  asserted 
itself  there.  As  it  is  said  :  — 

"  For  chiefly  here  thy  worth,  — 
Greatly  in  this,  that  unabated  trust, 
Amplest  reliance  on  the  unceasing  truth 
That  rules  the  darting  sphere  about  us, 
That  drives  round  the  unthinking  ball, 
And  buds  the  ignorant  germs  on  life  and  time, 
9* 


202  THOREAU. 

Of  men  and  beasts  and  birds,  themselves  the  sport 
Of  a  clear,  healthful  prescience,  still  unspent." 

He  admired  plants  and  trees:  truly,  he  loved 
them.  Doubt  not  that  it  was  their  infinite  beauty 
which  first  impressed  them  on  him,  and  then  he 
greatly  held  that  art  of  science  which,  taking  up 
the  miscellaneous  crowd,  impaled  them  on  the 
picket-fences  of  order,  and  coined  a  labelled  scien 
tific  plan  from  the  phenomenal  waste-basket  of 
vulgar  observation.  And  a  hearty  crack  in  Latin 
he  rejoiced  at ;  not  merely  because  he  had  digested 
it  early,  but  as  a  stencil-tool  for  the  mind.  He 
prized  a  substantial  name  for  a  thing  beyond  most 
sublunary  joys.  Name  it !  name  it !  he  might  have 
cried  to  the  blessed  fortune. 

"  He  shall  be  as  a  god  to  me  who  can  rightly 
define  and  divide.  The  subjects  on  which  the 
master  did  not  talk  were,  —  extraordinary  things, 
feats  of  strength,  disorder,  and  spiritual  beings. 
What  the  superior  man  seeks  is  in  himself :  what 
the  mean  man  seeks  is  in  others.  By  weighing  we 
know  what  things  are  light  and  what  heavy  ;  by 
measuring  we  know  what  things  are  long  and  what 
short.  It  is  of  the  greatest  importance  to  measure 
the  motions  of  the  mind." 

"  Mills  of  the  gods  do  slowly  wind, 
But  they  at  length  to  powder  grind." 

He  loved  what  the  Prussian  king  says  to  his 


MULTUM  IN  PAEVO.    .  203 

brother,  —  "I  write  this  letter  with  the  rough 
common-sense  of  a  German,  who  speaks  what  he 
thinks,  without  employing  equivocal  terms  and 
loose  assuagements  which  disfigure  the  truth." 
But  it  may  be  feared  he  would  have  stopped  run 
ning,  when  Fichte  thus  lays  his  finger  on  the  des 
tination  of  man:  "  My  consciousness  of  the  object 
is  only  a  yet  unrecognized  consciousness  of  my 
production  of  the  representation  of  an  object ; " 
although  he  admired  the  poet's  description,  — 

"  My  mother  bore  me  in  the  southern  wild, 

And  I  am  black,  but,  oh  !  my  soul  is  white,  — 
"White  as  an  angel  is  the  English  child, 
But  I  am  black  as  if  bereaved  of  light." 

For  pure,  nonsensical  abstractions  he  had  no 
taste.  No  work  on  metaphysics  found  room  on 
his  shelves  unless  by  sufferance ;  there  being  some 
Spartan  metaphysicians  who  send  you  their  books, 
like  the  witty  lecturer  who  sent  out  cards  of  invi 
tation  to  his  lectures,  when  you  had  to  come. 
Neither  did  he  keep  moral  treatises,  though  he 
would  not  say,  what  we  call  good  is  nothing  else 
than  egoism  painted  with  verbiage,  like  the  French 
man.  "  Stick  your  nose  into  any  gutter,  entity, 
or  object,  this  of  Motion  or  another,  with  obstinacy, 
you  will  easily  drown  if  that  be  your  determina 
tion.  Time,  at  its  own  pleasure,  will  untie  the 
knot  of  destiny,  if  there  be  one,  like  a  shot  of 


204  THOEEAV. 

electricity  through  an  elderly,  sick  household  cat." 
We  do  not  bind  ourselves  to  men  by  exaggerating 
those  peculiarities  in  which  we  happen  to  differ 
from  them. 

"  I  perceive  on  the  blue  vervain  (  Verbena  has- 
tata)  that  only  one  circle  of  buds,  about  half-a- 
dozen,  blossoms  at  a  time  ;  and  there  are  about 
thirty  circles  in  the  space  of  three  inches,  while 
the  next  circle  of  buds  above  at  the  same  time  shows 
the  blue.  Thus  the  triumphant  blossoming  circle 
travels  upward,  driving  the  remaining  buds  off  into 
space.  It  is  very  pleasant  to  measure  the  progress 
of  the  season  by  this  and  similar  clocks.  So  you 
get  not  the  absolute,  but  the  true  time  of  the 
season.  These  genera  of  plants  suggest  a  history 
to  nature,  —  a  natural  history,  in  a  new  sense.  Any 
anomaly  in  vegetation  makes  Nature  seem  more  real 
and  present  in  her  working,  as  the  various  red  and 
yellow  excrescences  on  young  oaks.  As  if  a  poet 
were  born  who  had  designs  in  his  head  !  Animals 
are  often  manifestly  related  to  the  plants,  which 
they  feed  upon  or  live  among,  as  caterpillars,  but 
terflies,  tree-toads,  partridges,  chewinks.  I  noticed 
a  yellow  spider  on  a  golden-rod.  The  interreg 
num  in  the  blossoming  of  flowers  being  well  over 
(August  24th),  many  small  flowers  blossom  now  in 
the  low  grounds,  having  just  reached  their  spring. 
What  a  miserable  name  to  the  Grratiola  aurea, 


MULTUM  IN  PAEVO.  205 

hedge-hyssop.  Whose  hedge  does  it  grow  by, 
pray,  in  this  part  of  the  world?  Rubus  semper- 
vircns,  the  small,  low  blackberry,  is  now  (August 
27th)  in  fruit ;  the  Medeola  Virginica,  cucumber- 
root,  is  now  in  green  fruit ;  and  the  Polygala  cruci- 
ata,  cross-leaved  polygala,  with  its  handsome  calyx 
and  leaves." 

On  such  Latin  thorns  do  botanists  hang  the  Lilies 
of  the  Vale,  —  things  that  can  only  be  crucified 
into  order  upon  the  justification  of  a  splitting-hair 
microscope.  We  are  assured  they  have  no  nerves, 
sharing  the  comfort  with  naturalists. 

"  The  ivy-leaves  are  turning  red ;  fall  dande 
lions  stand  thick  in  the  meadows.  The  leaves  on 
the  hardback  are  somewhat  appressed,  clothing  the 
stem  and  showing  their  downy  under-sides,  like 
white  waving  wands.  I  walk  often  in  drizzly 
weather,  for  then  the  small  weeds  (especially  if 
they  stand  on  bare  ground),  covered  with  rain 
drops  like  beads,  look  more  beautiful  than  ever. 
They  are  equally  beautiful  when  covered  with  dew, 
fresh  and  adorned,  almost  spirited  away  in  a  robe 
of  dewdrops.  At  the  Grape  Cliffs  the  few  bright 
red  leaves  of  the  tupelo  contrast  with  the  polished 
green  outs, — the  tupelos  with  drooping  branches. 
The  grape-vines,  over-running  and  bending  down 
the  maples,  form  little  arching  bowers  over  the 
meadow  five  or  six  feet  in  diameter,  like  parasols 


206  THOREAU. 

held  over  the  ladies  of  the  harem  in  the  East.  The 
rhomboidal  joints  of  the  tick  trefoil  (Desmodium 
paniculatum)  adhere  to  my  clothes,  and  thus  dis 
perse  themselves.  The  oak-ball  is  a  dirty  drab 
now.  When  I  got  into  the  Lincoln  road,  I  per 
ceived  a  singular  sweet  scent  in  the  air,  which 
I  suspected  arose  from  some  plant  now  in  a  pecu 
liar  state  owing  to  the  season  (September  llth)  ; 
but  though  I  smelled  every  thing  around  I  could 
not  detect  it,  but  the  more  eagerly  I  smelled  the 
further  I  seemed  to  be  from  finding  it ;  but  when 
I  gave  up  the  search,  again  it  would  be  wafted  to 
me,  the  intermitting  perfume  !  It  was  one  of  the 
sweet  scents  which  go  to  make  the  autumn  air, 
—  which  fed  my  sense  of  smell  rarely,  and  dilated 
my  nostrils.  I  felt  the  better  for  it.  Methinks 
that  I  possess  the  sense  of  smell  in  greater  per 
fection  than  usual,  and  have  the  habit  of  smelling 
of  every  plant  I  pluck.  How  autumnal  now  is 
the  scent  of  ripe  grapes  by  the  road-side !  The 
cross-leaved  polygala  emits  its  fragrance  as  if  at 
will.  You  must  not  hold  it  too  near,  but  on  all 
sides  and  at  all  distances.  How  beautiful  the 
sprout-land,  a  young  wood  thus  springing  up ! 
Shall  man  then  despair?  Is  he  not  a  sprout-land 
too? 

"  In   Cohosh  Swamp  the  leaves  have  turned  a 
very  deep  red,  but  have  not  lost  their  fragrance. 


MULTUM  IN  PAEVO.  207 

I  notice  wild  apples  growing  luxuriantly  in  the 
midst  of  the  swamp,  rising  red  over  the  colored, 
painted  leaves  of  the  sumac,  reminding  me  that 
they  were  colored  by  the  same  influences, —  some 
green,  some  yellow,  some  red.  I  fell  in  with  a 
man  whose  breath  smelled  of  spirit,  w^hich  he  had 
drunk.  How  could  I  but  feel  it  was  his  OWN 
spirit  that  I  smelt  ?  A  sparrow-hawk,  hardly  so 
big  as  a  night-hawk,  flew  over  high  above  my 
head,  —  a  pretty  little,  graceful  fellow,  too  small 
and  delicate  to  be  rapacious.  I  found  a  grove  of 
young  sugar-maples.  How  silently  and  yet  start- 
lingly  the  existence  of  these  was  revealed  to  me, 
which  I  had  not  thought  grew  in  my  immediate 
neighborhood,  when  first  I  perceived  the  entire 
edges  of  its  leaves  and  their  obtuse  sinuses  !  Such 
near  hills  as  Nobscot  and  Nashoba  have  lost  all 
their  azure  in  this  clear  air,  and  plainly  belong  to 
earth.  Give  me  clearness,  nevertheless,  though 
my  heavens  be  moved  further  off  to  pay  for  it.  It 
is  so  cold  I  am  glad  to  sit  behind  the  wall ;  still, 
the  great  bidens  blooms  by  the  causeway  side, 
beyond  the  bridge.  On  Mount  Misery  were  some 
very  rich  yellow  leaves  (clear  yellow)  of  the  Popu- 
lus  grandidentata,  which  still  love  to  wag  and 
tremble  in  my  hands." 

This  qualification  hides  the  plant  celebrated  by 
the  entombed  novelist,  Walter  Scott,  when  he 
speaks  cf — 


208  THOREAU. 

"  the  shade 
By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made." 

It  is  a  poplar  whose  leaves  are  soft  and  tremulous, 
and  some  botanist  has  smashed  his  Latinity  on  the 
little,  trembling,  desponding  thing.  We  shall  next 
be  required  to  ask,  "  What 's  yours  ?  "  To  Henry 
these  names  were  a  treat,  and  possessed  a  flavor 
beyond  the  title  of  emperor. 

The  river  never  failed  to  act  as  a  Pacific  for  his 
afternoon,  and  few  things  gave  him  so  great  a 
delight  as  a  three  hours'  voyage  on  this  mitigated 
form  of  Amazon. 

"  Seek  then,  again,  the  tranquil  river's  breast. 
July  awakes  new  splendor  in  the  stream,    . 
Yet  more  than  all,  the  water-lily's  pomp, 
A  star  of  creamy  perfume,  born  to  be 
Consoler  to  thy  solitary  voyage. 
In  vast  profusion  from  the  floor  of  pads, 
They  floating  swim,  with  their  soft  beauty  decked; 
Nor  slight  the  pickerel-weed,  whose  violet  shaft 
Controls  the  tall  reed's  emerald,  and  endows 
With  a  contrasted  coloring  the  shore. 
No  work  of  human  art  can  faintly  show 
The  unnoticed  lustre  of  these  summer  plants, 
These  floating  palaces,  these  anchored  orbs, 
These  spikes  of  untold  richness  crowning  earth. 
The  muskrat  glides,  and  perch  and  pout  display 
Their  arrowy  swiftness,  while  the  minnows  dart 
And  fright  the  filmy  silver  of  the  pool ; 
And  the  high-colored  bream,  a  ring  of  gems, 
Their  circular  nests  scoop  in  the  yellow  sands, 
And  never  ask,  Why  was  this  beauty  wasted 
On  these  banks  ?  nor  soon  believe  that  love  in  vain 
Is  lavished  on  the  solitude,  nor  deem 


MULTUM  IN  PARVO.  209 

Absence  of  human  life  absence  of  all ! 

Why  is  not  here  an  answer  to  thy  thought  ? 

Or  mark  in  August,  when  the  twilight  falls  : 

Like  wreaths  of  timid  smoke  her  curling  mist 

Poured  from  some  smouldering  fire  across 

The  meadows  cool,  whose  modest  shadows  thrown 

So  faintly  seem  to  fall  asleep  with  day. 

Oh,  softly  pours  the  thin  and  curling  mist ! 

Thou  twilight  hour  !  abode  of  peace  how  deep, 

May  we  not  enry  him  who  in  thee  dwells  ? 

And,  like  thy  soft  and  gently  falling  beauty, 

His  repose,  —  dreams  on  the  flood-tide  of  the  soul." 

Or  let  us  hear  this  dear  lover  of  wood  and  glen, 
of  early  morn  and  deep  midnight,  sing  a  strain  of 
the  autumnal  wind  as  it  goes  hurrying  about,  re 
gardless  of  the  plucked  mannikins  freezing  amid 
its  polarities :  — 

"  The  wind  roars  amid  the  pines  like  the  surf. 
You  can  hardly  hear  the  crickets  for  the  din  or  the 
cars.  Such  a  blowing,  stirring,  bustling  day  !  what 
does  it  mean?  All  light  things  decamp,  straws 
and  loose  leaves  change  their  places.  It  shows 
the  white  and  silvery  under-sides  of  the  leaves. 
I  perceive  that  some  farmers  are  busy  cutting  turf 
now.  You  dry  and  burn  the  very  earth  itself.  I 
see  the  volumes  of  smoke,  —  not  quite  the  blaze, 

—  from   burning  brush,  as  I  suppose,  far  in  the 
western  horizon:  the  farmers'  simple  enterprises! 
They  improve  this  season,  —  which  is  the  dryest, 

—  their  haying  being  done  and  their  harvest  not 
begun,    to    do    these    jobs :    burn    brush,    build 


210  THOREAU. 

walls,  dig  ditches,  cut  turf,  also  topping  corn  and 
digging  potatoes.  May  not  the  succory,  tree-prim 
rose,  and  other  plants,  be  distributed  from  Boston 
on  the  rays  of  the  railroad  ?  The  shorn  meadows 
looked  of  a  living  green  at  eve,  even  greener  than 
in  spring.  This  reminded  me  of  the  fenum  cor- 
dum,  the  after-math ;  sicilimenta  de  pratis,  the 
second  mowing  of  the  meadow,  in  Cato.  His 
remedy  for  sprains  would  be  as  good  in  some  cases 
as  opedeldoc.  You  must  repeat  these  words: 
*  Hauat,  hauat,  hauat  ista  pista  sista  damia  bo- 
danna  ustra.'  And  his  notion  of  an  auction  would 
have  had  a  fitness  in  the  South  :  '  If  you  wish  to 
have  an  auction,  sell  off  your  oil,  if  it  will  fetch 
something,  and  any  thing  in  the  wine  and  corn  line 
left  over ;  sell  your  old  oxen,  worthless  sheep  and 
cattle,  old  wool,  hides  and  carts ;  old  tools,  old 
slaves  and  sick  slaves ;  and  if  you  can  scrape  up 
any  more  trash,  sell  it  along  with  them.'  I  now 
begin  to  pick  wild  apples. 

"  We  scared  a  calf  out  of  the  meadows,  which  ran, 
like  a  ship  tossed  on  the  waves,  over  the  hills :  they 
run  awkwardly,  —  red,  oblong  squares,  tossing  up 
and  down  like  a  vessel  in  a  storm,  with  great  com 
motion.  I  observe  that  the  woodchuck  has  two  or 
more  holes,  a  rod  or  two  apart :  one,  or  the  front 
door,  where  the  excavated  sand  is  heaped  up ; 
another,  not  so  easily  discovered,  which  is  very 


MULTUM  IN  PAEVO.  211 

small,  round,  and  without  sand  about  it,  being  that 
by  which  he  emerged,  and  smaller  directly  at  the 
surface  than  beneath,  on  the  principle  by  which  a 
well  is  dug.  I  saw  a  very  fat  woodchuck  on  a 
wall,  evidently  prepared  to  go  into  the  ground,  — 

"  Want  and  woe  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous." 

As  the  woodchuck  dines  chiefly  on  crickets,  he 
will  not  be  at  much  expense  in  seats  for  his  winter 
quarters.  Since  the  anatomical  discovery,  that 
the  thymoid  gland,  whose  use  in  man  is  nihil^  is  for 
the  purpose  of  getting  digested  during  the  hiber 
nating  jollifications  of  the  woodchuck,  we  sympa 
thize  less  at  his  retreat.  Darwin,  who  hibernates 
in  science,  cannot  yet  have  heard  of  this  use  of 
the  above  gland,  or  he  would  have  derived  the 
human  race  to  that  amount  from  the  Mus  montana, 
our  woodchuck,  instead  of  landing  him  flat  on  the 
simiadce,  or  monkey.  We  never  can  remember 
that  our  botanist  took  a  walk  that  gave  him  a  poor 
turn  or  disagreed  with  him.  It  is  native  to  him 
to  say, — 

"  It  was  pleasant  walking  where  the  road  was 
shaded  by  a  high  hill,  as  it  can  be  only  in  the 
morning ;  also,  looking  back,  to  see  a  heavy  shadow 
made  by  some  high  birches  reaching  quite  across 
the  road.  Light  arid  shadow  are  sufficient  contrast 


212  THOEEA  U. 

and  furnish  sufficient  excitement  when  we  are  well. 
Now  we  were  passing  a  sunshiny  mead,  pastured 
with  cattle  and  sparkling  with  dew,  —  the  sound  of 
crows  and  swallows  was  heard  in  the  air,  and 
leafy-columned  elms  stood  about,  shining  with 
moisture.  The  morning  freshness  and  unwoiidli- 
ness  of  that  domain !  When  you  are  starting 
away,  leaving  your  more  familiar  fields  for  a  little 
adventure  like  a  walk,  you  look  at  every  object 
with  a  traveller's,  or  at  least  historical,  eyes ;  you 
pause  on  the  foot-bridge  where  an  ordinary  walk 
hardly  commences,  and  begin  to  observe  and  moral 
ize.  It  is  worth  the  while  to  see  your  native 
village  thus,  sometimes.  The  dry  grass  yields  a 
crisped  sound  to  my  feet ;  the  cornstalks,  standing 
in  stacks  in  long  rows  along  the  edges  of  the  corn 
fields,  remind  me  of  stacks  of  muskets.  As  soon 
as  berries  are  gone,  grapes  come.  The  flowers  of 
the  meadow-beauty  are  literally  little  reddish  chal 
ices  now,  though  many  still  have  petals,  —  little 
cream-pitchers.  There  was  a  man  in  a  boat,  in  the 
sun,  just  disappearing  in  the  distance  around  a 
bend,  lifting  high  his  arms,  and  dipping  his  paddles, 
as  if  he  were  a  vision  bound  to  the  land  of  the 
blessed,  far  off  as  in  a  picture.  When  I  see  Con 
cord  to  purpose,  I  see  it  as  if  it  were  not  real,  but 
painted;  and  what  wonder  if  I  do  not  speak  to 
thee  f  " 


.  MULTUM  IN  PAEVO.  213 

And  there  was  nothing  our  poet  loved  or  sang 
better,  albeit  in  prose,  than  the  early  morning :  — 

"  Alone,  despondent  ?  then  art  thou  alone, 
On  some  near  hill-top,  ere  of  day  the  orb 
In  early  summer  tints  the  floating  heaven, 
While  sunk  around  thy  sleeping  race  o'ershade 
With  more  oblivion  their  dim  village-roofs. 

Alone  ?     Oh,  listen  hushed ! 
What  living  hymn  awakes  such  studious  air? 
A  myriad  sounds  that  in  one  song  converge, 
As  the  added  light  lifts  the  far  hamlet 
Or  the  distant  wood.     These  are  the  carols 
Of  the  unnumbered  birds  that  drench  the  sphere 
With  their  prodigious  harmony,  prolonged 
And  ceaseless,  so  that  at  no  time  it  dies, 
Vanquishing  the  expectation  with  delay. 
Still  crowding  notes  from  the  wild  robin's  larum 
In  the  walnut's  bough,  to  the  veery's  flute, 
Who,  from  the  inmost  shades  of  the  wet  wood, 
His  liquid  lay  rallies  in  martial  trills. 
And  mark  the  molten  flecks  fast  on  those  skies ; 
They  move  not,  musing  on  their  rosy  heights 
In  pure,  celestial  radiance. 

.Nor  these  forms, 

That  chiefly  must  engross  and  ask  thy  praise. 
It  is  a  startling  theme,  this  lovely  birth 
Each  morn  of  a  new  day,  so  wholly  new, 
So  absolutely  penetrated  by  itself,  — 
This  fresh,  this  sweet,  this  ever-living  grace, 
This  tender  joy  that  still  unstinted  clothes 
An  orb  of  beauty,  of  all  bliss  the  abode. 
Cast  off  the  night,  unhinge  the  dream-clasped  brow, 
Step  freely  forth,  exulting  in  thy  joy  ; 
Launch  off,  and  sip  the  dewy  twilight  time ; 
Come  ere  the  last  great  stars  have  fled,  ere  dawn 


214  THOSE AU. 

Like  a  spirit  seen,  unveil  the  charm 

Of  bosky  wood,  deep  dell,  or  odorous  plain ; 

Ere,  blazed  with  more  than  gold,  some  slow-drawn  mist 

Retreats  its  distant  arm  from  the  cool  meads." 

As  in  the  song,  such  a  "  getting  up  we  never 
saw,"  our  author  sallying  forth  like  Don  Quixote, 
ere  the  stingiest  farmer  commenced  milking  his 
cow-yard  cistern.  All  that  he  did  was  done  with 
order  due :  the  late  walk  came  out  at  two  in  the 
morning,  and  the  early  one  came  on  at  the  same 
crisis. 

"  His  drink  the  running  stream,  his  cup  the  bare 
Of  his  palm  closed,  his  bed  the  hard,  cold  ground.'* 

Cleanness,  punctuality,  the  observation  of  the  law 
he  truly  followed.  "  Treat  with  the  reverence  due 
to  age  the  elders  of  your  own  family,  so  that  the 
elders  in  the  families  of  others  shall  be  similarly 
treated ;  treat  with  the  kindness  due  to  youth  the 
young  in  your  own  family,  so  that  the  young  in  the 
families  of  others  shall  be  similarly  treated :  do 
this,  and  the  empire  may  be  made  to  go  round  in 
your  palm."  He  might  have  said,  with  Victor 
Hugo,  "  The  finest  of  all  altars  is  the  soul  of  an 
unhappy  man  who  is  consoled,  and  thanks  God. 
Nisi  Dominus  custodierit  domum,  in  vanum  vigilant 
qui  custodiant  earn  (Unless  God  watches  over 
our  abode,  they  watch  in  vain  who  are  set  to 
keep  it).  Let  us  never  fear  robbers  or  murderers. 


MULTUM  IN  PAEVO.  215 

They  are  external  and  small  dangers :  let  us 
fear  ourselves ;  prejudices  are  the  true  thefts, 
vices  the  fatal  murders."  And  his  notions  about 
the  privileges  of  real  property  remind  us  of  the 
park  of  King  Van,  which  contained  seventy  square 
le ;  but  the  grass-cutters  and  the  fuel-gatherers 
had  the  privilege  of  entrance.  He  shared  it  with 
the  people ;  and  was  it  not  with  reason  they 
looked  on  it  as  small?  Of  every  ten  things  he 
knew,  he  had  learned  nine  in  conversation  ;  and  he 
remembered  that  between  friends  frequent  reproofs 
lead  to  distance,  and  that  in  serving  the  neighbor 
frequent  remonstrances  lead  to  disgrace.  Nor  did 
he  follow  that  old  rule  of  the  nuns,  —  Believe 
Secular  men  little,  Religious  still  less.  He  was 
one  of  those  men  of  education  who,  without  a 
certain  livelihood,  are  able  to  maintain  a  fixed 
pursuit. 

"  Thou  art  not  gone,  being  gone,  where'er  thou  art : 
Thou  leav'st  in  us  thy  watchful  eyes,  in  us  thy  loving  heart." 


216  TEOEEAU. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

HIS  WETTINGS. 

"  The  dark-colored  ivy  and  the  untrodden  grove  of  God,  with  its  myriad 
fruits,  sunless  and  without  wind  in  all  storms;  where  always  the  frenzied 
Dionysus  dwells."—  SOPHOCLES. 

"When,  like  the  stars,  the  singing  angels  shot 
To  earth."  GILES  FLETCHEB. 

"  Patience !    why,  'tis  the  soul  of  peace, 
It  makes  men  look  like. gods!    The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  wore  earth  about  him  was  a  Suft'erer, 
A  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit; 
The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breathed." 

DECKER. 

"  'I  know  not '  is  one  word;  'I  know'  is  ten  words."—  CHINESE  PROV 
ERB. 

"Friendship  has  passed  me  like  a  ship  at  sea." — FESTTTS. 

E  of  the  objects  of  our  poet-naturalist  was  to 
acquire  the  art  of  writing  a  good  English  style. 
So  Goethe,  that  slow  and  artful  formalist,  spent 
himself  in  acquiring  a  good  German  style.  And 
what  Thoreau  thought  of  this  matter  of  writing 
may  be  learned  from  many  passages  in  this  sketch, 
and  from  this  among  the  rest :  "  It  is  the  fault  of 
some  excellent  writers,  and  De  Quincey's  first  im 
pressions  on  seeing  London  suggest  it  to  me,  that 
they  express  themselves  with  too  great  fulness  and 


HIS   WRITINGS.  217 

detail.  They  give  the  most  faithful,  natural,  and 
lifelike  account  of  their  sensations,  mental  and 
physical,  but  they  lack  moderation  and  sententious- 
ness.  They  do  not  affect  us  as  an  ineffectual 
earnest,  and  a  reserve  of  meaning,  like  a  stutterer : 
they  say  all  they  mean.  Their  sentences  are  not 
concentrated  and  nutty,  —  sentences  which  suggest 
far  more  than  they  say,  which  have  an  atmosphere 
about  them,  which  do  not  report  an  old,  but  make 
a  new  impression ;  sentences  which  suggest  on 
many  things,  and  are  as  durable  as  a  Roman  aque 
duct  :  to  frame  these,  —  that  is  the  art  of  writing. 
Sentences  which  are  expressive,  towards  which  so 
many  volumes,  so  much  life,  went ;  which  lie  like 
boulders  on  the  page  up  and  down,  or  across; 
which  contain  the  seed  of  other  sentences,  not 
mere  repetition,  but  creation  ;  and  wThich  a  man 
might  sell  his  ground  or  cattle  to  build.  De  Quin- 
cey's  style  is  nowhere  kinked  or  knotted  up  into 
something  hard  and  significant,  which  you  could 
swallow  like  a  diamond,  without  digesting." 

As  in  the  story,  "  And  that 's  Peg  Woffington's 
notion  of  an  actress  !  Better  it,  Gibber  and  Brace- 
girdle,  if  you  can  !  "  This  moderation  does,  for 
the  most  part,  characterize  his  works,  both  of  prose 
and  verse.  They  have  their  stoical  merits,  their 
uneomfortableness  !  It  is  one  result  to  be  lean  and 
sacrificial,  yet  a  balance  of  comfort  and  a  house  of 
10 


218  THOREAU. 

freestone  on  the  sunny  side  of  Beacon  Street  can 
be  endured  in  a  manner  by  weak  nerves.  But  the 
fact  that  our  author  lived  for  a  while  alone  in  a 
shanty  near  a  pond  or  stagnum,  and  named  one  of 
his  books  after  the  place  where  it  stood,  has  led 
some  to  say  he  was  a  barbarian  or  a  misanthrope, 
—  it  was  a  writing-case  :  — 

"  This,  as  an  amber  drop  enwraps  a  bee, 
Covering  discovers  your  quick  soul,  that  we 
May  in  your  through-shine  front  your  heart's  thoughts  see." 

Here,  in  this  wooden  inkstand,  he  wrote  a  good 
part  of  his  famous  "  Walden ;  "  and  this  solitary 
woodland  pool  was  more  to  his  muse  than  all 
oceans  of  the  planet,  by  the  force  of  that  faculty 
on  which  he  was  never  weary  of  descanting, — 
Imagination.  Without  this,  he  says,  human  life, 
dressed  in  its  Jewish  or  other  gaberdine,  would  be 
a  kind  of  lunatic's  hospital,  insane  with  the  prose 
of  it,  mad  with  the  drouth  of  society's  remainder- 
biscuits  ;  but  add  the  phantasy,  that  glorious,  that 
divine  gift,  and  then  — 

"  The  earth,  the  air,  and  seas  I  know,  and  all 
The  joys  and  horrors  of  their  peace  and  wars  ; 
And  now  will  view  the  gods'  state  and  the  stars." 

Out  of  this  faculty  was  his  written  experience 
chiefly  constructed,  —  upon  this  he  lived ;  not 
upon  the  cracked  wheats  and  bread-fruits  of  an  out- 


HIS   WRITINGS.  219 

ward  platter.  His  essays,  those  masterful  crea 
tions,  taking  up  the  commonest  topics,  a  sour 
apple,  an  autumn  leaf,  are  features  of  this  won 
drous  imagination  of  his ;  and,  as  it  was  his  very 
life-blood,  he,  least  of  all,  sets  it  forth  in  labored 
description.  He  did  not  bring  forward  his  means, 
unlock  the  closet  of  his  Maelzel's  automaton  chess 
player.  The  reader  cares  not  that  the  writer  of  a 
novel,  with  two  lovers  in  hand,  should  walk  out 
on  the  fool's-cap,  and  begin  balancing  some  pea 
cock's  feather  on  his  nose. 

"  Begin,  murderer,  — leave  thy  damnable  faces,  and  begin  ! " 

He  loved  antithesis  in  verse.  It  could  pass  for 
paradox,  —  something  subtractive  and  unsatisfac 
tory,  as  the  four  herrings  provided  by  Caleb  Balder- 
stone  for  Ravenswood's  dinner:  come,  he  says,  let 
us  see  how  miserably  uncomfortable  we  can  feel. 
Hawthorne,  too,  enjoyed  a  grave  and  a  pocket  full 
of  miseries  to  nibble  upon. 

In  his  discourse  of  Friendship,  Thoreau  starts 
with  the  idea  of  "  underpropping  his  love  by  such 
pure  hate,  that  it  would  end  in  sympathy,"  like 
sweet  butter  from  sour  cream.  And  in  this  :  — 

"  Two  solitary  stars,  — 
Unmeasured  systems  far 
Between  us" roll ; " 

getting  off  into  the  agonies  of  space,  where  every 
thing  freezes,  yet  adds  as  inducement,  — 


220  THOEEAU. 

"  But  by  our  conscious  light  we  are 
Determined  to  one  pole." 

In  other  words,  there  was  a  pole  apiece.  He  con 
tinues  the  antithesis,  and  says  there  is  "  no  more  use 
in  friendship  than  in  the  tints  of  flowers"  (the 
chief  use  in  them),  "  pathless  the  gulf  of  feeling 
yawns,"  and  the  reader  yawns,  too,  at  the  idea  of 
tumbling  into  it.  And  so  he  "packs  up  in  his 
mind  all  the  clothes  which  outward  nature  wears," 
like  a  young  lady's  trunk  going  to  Mount  Desert. 
We  must  not  expect  literature,  in  each  case,  to 
run  its  hands  round  the  dial-plate  of  style  with 
cuckoo  repetition :  the  snarls  he  criticises  De  Quin- 
cey  for  not  getting  into  are  the  places  where  his 
bundles  of  sweetmeats  untie.  As  in  the  Vendidad, 
"  Hail  to  thee,  O  man !  who  art  come  from  the 
transitory  place  to  the  imperishable :  " — 

"  In  Nature's  nothing,  be  not  nature's  toy." 

This  feature  in  his  style  is  by  no  means  so  much 
bestowed  upon  his  prose  as  his  poetry.  In  his 
verse  he  more  than  once  attained  to  beauty,  more 
often  to  quaintness.  He  did  not  court  admiration, 
though  he  admired  fame ;  and  he  might  have  said : 

"  Whoe'er  thou  beest  who  read'st  this  sullen  writ, 
Which  just  so  much  courts  thee  as  thou  dost  it." 

He  had  an  excellent  turn  of  illustration.  Speak 
ing  of  the  debris  of  Carnac,  he  says :  — 


HIS   WETTINGS.  221 

"  Erect  ourselves,  and  let  those  columns  lie  ; 
If  Carnac's  columns  still  stand  on  the  plain, 
To  enjoy  our  opportunities  they  remain." 

The  little  Yankee  squatting  on  Walden  Pond 
was  not  deceived  by  an  Egyptian  stone  post,  or 
sand  heap.  In  another  verse  :  — 

"  When  life  contracts  into  a  vulgar  span, 
And  human  nature  tires  to  be  a  man,  — 
Greece !  who  am  I  that  should  remember  thee  ? " 

And  he  let  Greece  slide.     At  times  he  hangs  up  old 
authors,  in  the  blaze  of  a  New  England  noon. 

"  Plutarch  was  good,  and  so  was  Homer  too, 
Our  Shakespeare's  life  was  rich  to  live  again ; 
What  Plutarch  read,  that  was  not  good  nor  true, 
Nor  Shakespeare's  books,  unless  his  books  were  men." 

"  Tell  Shakespeare  to  attend  some  leisure  hour, 
For  now  I've  business  with  this  drop  of  dew." 

He  could  drop  Shakespeare ;  and  it  were  well  if 
both  he  and  Dante  were  prescribed,  rather  than 
poured  out  of  bath-tubs.  Every  one  must,  how 
ever,  admire  the  essay  of  Mr.  Brown  on  the  Bard 
of  Avon,  and  the  translation  of  Dante  by  Mr. 
Black :  neatness  is  the  elegance  of  poverty. 

The  following  verses  are  pretty,  the  last  line 
from  Milton's  "  Penseroso,"  with  the  change  of  a 
syllable.  He  did  not  fear  to  collect  a  good  line  any 
more  than  a  good  flower :  — 


222  THOEEAU. 

RUMORS  FROM  AN  AEOLIAN  HARP. 

"  There  is  a  vale  which  none  hath  seen, 
Where  foot  of  man  has  never  been, 
Such  as  here  lives  with  toil  and  strife, 
An  anxious  and  a  sinful  life. 

There  every  virtue  has  its  birth, 
Ere  it  descends  upon  the  earth, 
And  thither  every  deed  returns, 
Which  in  the  generous  bosom  burns. 

There  love  is  warm,  and  youth  is  young, 
And  poetry  is  yet  unsung  ; 
For  Virtue  still  adventures  there, 
And  freely  breathes  her  native  air. 

And  ever,  if  you  hearken  well, 
You  still  may  hear  its  vesper  bell, 
And  tread  of  high-souled  men  go  by, 
Their  thoughts  conversing  with  the  sky." 

He  has  no  killing  single  shots,  —  Ms  thoughts 
flowed. 

"  Be  not  the  fowler's  net, 

Which  stays  my  flight, 
And  craftily  is  set 
T'  allure  my  sight. 

But  be  the  favoring  gale 

That  bears  me  on, 
And  still  doth  fill  my  sail 

When  thou  art  gone. 


HIS   WHITINGS.  223 

Some  tender  buds  were  left  upon  my  stem 
In  mimicry  of  life. 

Some  tumultuous  little  rill, 

Purling  round  its  storied  pebble. 

Conscience  is  instinct  bred  in  the  house. 

Experienced  river ! 

Hast  thou  flowed  for  ever  ?  " 


As  an  instance  of  his  humor  in  verse :  — 

"  I  make  ye  an  offer, 
Ye  gods,  hear  the  scoffer ! 
The  scheme  will  not  hurt  you, 
If  ye  will  find  goodness,  I  will  find  virtue. 
I  have  pride  still  unbended, 
And  blood  undescended ; 
I  cannot  toil  blindly,  * 
Though  ye  behave  kindly, 
And  I  swear  by  the  rood 
I  '11  be  slave  to  no  god." 

"  Nature  doth  have  her  dawn  each  day, 

But  mine  are  far  between  ; 

Content,  I  cry,  for  sooth  to  say, 

Mine  brightest  are  I  ween. 

For  when  my  sun  doth  deign  to  rise, 

Though  it  be  her  noontide, 
Her  fairest  field  in  shadow  lies, 

Nor  can  my  light  abide. 


224  THOEEAU. 

Through  his  discourse  I  climb  and  see, 

As  from  some  eastern  hill, 
A  brighter  morrow  rise  to  me 

Than  lieth  in  her  skill. 

As  'twere  two  summer  days  in  one, 

Two  Sundays  come  together, 
Our  rays  united  make  one  sun, 

With  fairest  summer  weather." 

July  25th,  1839. 

This  date  is  for  those  who,  unlike  Alfieri.  are  by 
nature  not  almost  destitute  of  curiosity ;  and  the 
subject,  Friendship,  is  for  the  like  :  — 

"  For  things  that  pass  are  past,  and  in  this  field 
The  indeficient  spring  no  winter  flaws." 

What  subtlety  and  what  greatness  in  those  quar- 
trains  !  then  how  truly  original,  how  vague  !  His 
Pandora's  box  of  a  head  carried  all  manner  of 
sweets.  No  one  would  guess  the  theme,  Yankee 
though  he  be.  He  has  that  richness :  — 

"  Looks  as  it  is  with  some  true  April  day, 


Whose  various  weather  strews  the  world  with  flowers." 

As  he  well  affirms,  if  it  be  applied  antithetically, 
a  man  cannot  wheedle  nor  overawe  his  genius. 
Nothing  was  ever  so  unfamiliar  and  startling  to  a 
man  as  his  own  thoughts.  To  the  rarest  genius 
it  is  the  most  expensive  to  succumb  and  conform 
to  the  ways  of  the  world.  It  is  the  worst  of 
lumber  if  the  poet  wants  to  float  upon  the  breeze 


HIS   WHITINGS.  225 

of  popularity.  The  bird  of  paradise  is  obliged 
constantly  to  fly  against  the  wind.  The  poet  is 
no  tender  slip  of  fairy  stock,  but  the  toughest  son 
of  earth  and  of  heaven.  He  will  prevail  to  be 
popular  in  spite  of  his  faults,  and  in  spite  of  his 
beauties  too.  He  makes  us  free  of  his  hearth  and 
heart,  which  is  greater  than  to  offer  us  the  free 
dom  of  a  city.  Orpheus  does  not  hear  the  strains 
which  issue  from  his  lyre,  but  only  those  which  are 
breathed  into  it.  The  poet  will  write  for  his  peers 
alone.  He  never  whispers  in  a  private  ear.  The 
true  poem  is  not  that  which  the  public  read.  His 
true  work  will  not  stand  in  any  prince's  gallery. 

"  My  life  has  been  the  poem  I  would  have  writ, 
But  I  could  not  both  live  and  utter  it. 


I  hearing  get,  who  had  but  ears, 

And  sight,  who  had  but  eyes  before. 

I  moments  live,  who  lived  but  years, 

And  truth  discern,  who  knew  but  learning's  lore." 

He  has  this  bit  of  modesty :  — 


"  In  vain  I  see  the  morning  rise, 

In  vain  observe  the  western  blaze, 
Who  idly  look  to  othfer  skies, 
Expecting  life  by  other  ways. 

Amidst  such  boundless  wealth  without, 

I  only  still  am  poor  within, 
10*  o 


THOSE AU. 

The  birds  have  sung  their  summer  out, 
But  still  my  spring  does  not  begin. 

Shall  I  then  wait  the  autumn  wind, 
Compelled  to  seek  a  milder  day, 

And  leave  no  curious  nest  behind, 
No  woods  still^choing  to  my  lay." 

Again  he  asks,  "  Shall  I  not  have  words  as  fresh 
as  my  thought  ?  Shall  I  use  any  other  man's  word  ? 
A  genuine  thought  or  feeling  would  find  expres 
sion  for  itself,  if  it  had  to  invent  hieroglyphics. 
I  perceive  that  Shakespeare  and  Milton  did  not 
foresee  into  what  company  they  were  to  fall.  To 
say  that  God  has  given  a  man  many  and  great 
talents,  frequently  means  that  he  has  brought  his 
heavens  ddwn  within  reach  of  his  hands."  He 
sometimes  twanged  a  tune  of  true  prose  on  the 
strings  of  his  theorbo,  as  where,  instead  of  Cow- 
per's  church-going  bell,  he  flatly  says :  — 

'•'Dong  sounds  the  brass  in  the  east," 

which  will  pass  for  impudence  with  our  United 
Brethren.  It  is  difficult  to  comprehend  his  aloof 
ness  from  these  affectionate  old  symbols,  drawling 
out  from  the  sunshiny  past,  and  without  which  our 
New  England  paradise  is  but  a  "  howling  wilder 
ness,"  although  he  loves  the  echo  of  the  meeting 
house  brass.  It  is  his  species  of  paradoxical 
quintessence.  He  draws  a  village :  "  it  has  a  meet- 


HIS   WRITINGS.  227 

ing-house  and  horse-sheds,  a  tavern  and  a  black 
smith's  shop  for  centre,  and  a  good  deal  of  wood 
to  cut  and  cord  yet." 

"  A  man  that  looks  on  glass, 
On  it  may  stay  his  eye  ; 
Or,  if  he  pleaseth,  through  it  pass, 
And  the  heavens  espy." 

His  notions  of  institutions  were  like  his  views  of 
sepulchres.  Another  has  said,  "  It  is  my  business 
to  rot  dead  leaves,"  symbolizing  a  character  work 
ing  like  water.  "  A  man  might  well  pray  that  he 
may  not  taboo  or  curse  any  portion  of  nature  by 
being  buried  in  it.  It  is,  therefore,  much  to  the 
credit  of  Little  John,  the  famous  follower  of  Robin 
Hood,  that  his  grave  was  '  long  celebrous  for  the. 
yielding  of  excellent  whetstones.'  Nothing  but 
great  antiquity  can  make  grave-yards  interesting 
to  me.  I  have  no  friends  there.  The  farmer  who 
has  skimmed  his  farm  might  perchance  leave  his 
body  to  nature  to  be  ploughed  in.  '  And  the  king 
seide,  What  is  the  biriel  which  I  se?  And  the 
citeseynes  of  that  cite  answeride  to  him,  It  is  the 
sepulchre  of  the  man  of  God  that  cam  fro  Juda.' ' 
He  makes  us  a  photograph  of  style,  which  touches 
some  of  his  chief  strength.  "  There  is  a  sort  of 
homely  truth  and  naturalness  in  some  books  which 
is  very  rare  to  find,  and  yet  looks  cheap  enough. 
Homeliness  is  almost  as  great  a  merit  in  a  book  as 
in  a  house,  if  the  reader  would  abide  there.  It  is 


228  THOSE  AU. 

next  to  beauty,  and  a  very  high  art.  Some  have 
this  merit  only.  Very  few  men  can  speak  of 
Nature,  for  instance,  with  any  truth.  They  over 
step  her  modesty,  somehow  or  other,  and  confer  no 
favor.  They  do  not  speak  a  good  word  for  her. 
The  surliness  with  which  the  wood-chopper  speaks 
of  his  woods,  handling  them  as  indifferently  as  his 
axe,  -is  better  than  the  mealy-mouthed  enthusiasm 
of  the  lover  of  nature."  So  Philina  cried,  "  Oh  ! 
that  I  might  never  hear  more  of  nature  and  scenes 
of  nature  !  When  the  day  is  bright  you  go  to 
walk,  and  to  dance  when  you  hear  a  tune  played. 
But  who  would  think  a  moment  on  the  music  or 
the  weather  ?  It  is  the  dancer  that  interests  us, 
'and  not  the  violin;  and  to  look  upon  a  pair  of 
bright  black  eyes  is  the  life  of  a  pair  of  blue  ones. 
But  what  on  earth  have  we  to  do  with  wells  and 
brooks  and  old  rotten  lindens  ? 

"  I  sing  but  as  the  linnet  sings, 
1  That  on  the  green  bough  dwelleth; 
A  rich  reward  his  music  brings, 

As  from  his  throat  it  swelleth : 
Yet  might  I  ask,  I  'd  ask  of  thine 
One  sparkling  draught  of  purest  wine, 
To  drink  it  here  before  you." 

He  viewed  the  wine,  he  quaffed  it  up : 
"  Oh  !  draught  of  sweetest  savor ! 

Oh !  happy  house,  where  such  a  cup 
Is  thought  a  little  favor ! 


HIS   WRITINGS.  229 

If  well  you  fare,  remember  me, 
And  thank  kind  Heaven,  from  envy  free, 
As  now  for  this  I  thank  you." 

Goethe  never  signed  the  temperance-pledge :  no 
more  did  Thoreau,  but  he  drank  the  kind  of  wine 
"  which  never  grew  in  the  belly  of  the  grape,"  but  in 
that  of  the  corn.  He  was  made  more  dry  by  drink 
ing.  These  affections  were  a  kind  of  resume,  or  in 
fant  thanatopsis,  sharp  on  both  edges.  Yet,  in  spite 
of  this  abundant  moderation,  he  says,  "  I  trust  that 
you  realize  what  an  exaggerator  I  am,  —  that  I  lay 
myself  out  to  exaggerate  whenever  I  have  an  oppor 
tunity,  — pile  Pelion  upon  Ossa,  to  reach  heaven  so. 
Expect  no  trivial  truth  from  me,  unless  I  am  on  the 
witness  stand.  I  will  come  as  near  to  lying  as  you 
will  drive  a  coach-and-four.  If  it  isn't  thus  and 
so  with  me,  it  is  with  something."  As  for  writing^, 
letters,  he  mounts  above  prose.  "  Methinks  I  will 
write  to  you.  Methinks  you  will  be  glad  to  hear. 
We  will  stand  on  solid  foundations  to  one  another, 
—  I  am  a  column  planted  on  this  shore,  you  on 
that.  We  meet  the  same  sun  in  his  rising.  We 
were  built  slowly,  and  have  come  to  our  bearing. 
We  will  not  mutually  fall  over  that  we  may  meet, 
but  will  grandly  and  eternally  guard  the  straits." 

"  My  life  is  like  a  stroll  upon  the  beach,  — 
I  have  but  few  companions  by  the  shore. 


230  THOREAU. 

Go  where  he  will,  the  wise  man  is  at  home  ; 
His  hearth  the  earth,  his  hall  the  azure  dome  ; 
Where  his  clear  spirit  leads  him,  there  's  his  road." 

The  well-known  speech  to  his  large  and  respect 
able  circle  of  acquaintance  beyond  the  mountains  is 
a  pretty  night-piece.  "  Greeting  :  My  most  serene 
and  irresponsible  neighbors,  let  us  see  that  we  have 
the  whole  advantage  of  each  other.  We  will  be 
useful,  at  least,  if  not  admirable  to  one  another. 
I  know  that  the  mountains  which  separate  us  are 
high,  and  covered  with  perpetual  snow  ;  but  despair 
not.  Improve  the  serene  weather  to  scale  them. 
If  need  be,  soften  the  rocks  with  vinegar.  For  here 
lies  the  verdant  plain  of  Italy  ready  to  receive  you. 
Nor  shall  I  be  slow  on  my  side  to  penetrate  to 
your  Provence.  Strike  then  boldly  at  head  or 
heart,  or  any  vital  part.  Depend  upon  it  the  timber 
is  well  seasoned  and  tough,  and  will  bear  rough 
usage  ;  and  if  it  should  crack,  there  is  plenty  more 
where  it  came  from.  I  am  no  piece  of  crockery, 
that  cannot  be  jostled  against  my  neighbor  without 
being  in  danger  of  being  broken  by  the  collision, 
and  must  needs  ring  false  and  jarringly  to  the  end 
of  my  days  when  once  I  am  cracked,  but  rather 
one  of  the  old-fashioned  wooden  trenchers,  which 
one  while  stands  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  at 
another  is  a  milking-stool,  and  at  another  a  seat 
for  children  ;  and,  finally,  goes  down  to  its  grave 


HIS   WRITINGS.  231 

not  unadorned  with,  honorable  scars,  and  does  not 
die  till  it  is  worn  out.  Nothing  can  shock  a  brave 
man  but  dulness.  Think  how  many  rebuffs  every 
man  has  experienced  in  his  day,  —  perhaps  has 
fallen  into  a  horse-pond,  eaten  fresh- water  clams, 
or  worn  one  shirt  for  a  week  without  washing. 
Indeed,  you  cannot  receive  a  shock,  unless  you  have 
an  electric  affinity  for  that  which  shocks  you.  Use 
me,  then  ;  for  I  am  useful  in  my  way,  and  stand  as 
one  of  many  petitioners,  —  from  toadstool  and  hen 
bane  up  to  dahlia  and  violet,  —  supplicating  to  be 
put  to  any  use,  if  by  any  means  you  may  find  me 
serviceable  :  whether  for  a  medicated  drink  or  bath, 
as  balm  and  lavender ;  or  for  fragrance,  as  ver 
bena  and  geranium  ;  or  for  sight,  as  cactus ;  or  for 
thoughts,  as  pansy.  These  humbler,  at  least,  if  not 
those  higher  uses."  So  good  a  writer  should 

"live 
Upon  the  alms  of  his  superfluous  praise." 

He  was  choice  in  his  words.  "  All  these  sounds," 
says  he,  "  the  crowing  of  cocks,  the  baying  of 
dogs,  and  the  hum  of  insects  at  noon,  are  the  evi 
dence  of  nature's  health  or  sound  state."  For  so 
learned  a  man  he  spared  his  erudition ;  neither  did 
he,  as  one  who  was  no  mean  poet,  use  lines  like 
these  to  celebrate  his  clearness :  — 

"  Who  dares  upbraid  these  open  rhymes  of  mine 
With  blindfold  Aquines,  or  darke  Venusine  1 


232  THOREAU. 

Or  rough-hewn  Teretisius,  writ  in  th'  antique  vain 

Like  an  old  satire,  and  new  Flaccian  ? 

Which  who  reads  thrice,  and  rubs  his  ragged  brow, 

And  deep  indenteth  every  doubtful  row, 

Scoring  the  margent  with  his  blazing  stars, 

And  hundredth  crooked  interlinears 

(Like  to  a  merchant's  debt-roll  new  defaced, 

When  some  crack'd  Mariour  cross'd  his  book  at  last), 

Should  all  in  rage  the  curse-beat  page  out-rive, 

And  in  each  dust-heap  bury  me  alive." 

There  are  so  few  obscurities  in  Thoreau's  writ 
ing,  that  the  uneasy  malevolence  of  ephemeral 
critics  has  not  discovered  enough  to  cite,  and  his 
style  has  that  ease  and  moderateness  he  appears  to 
taste. 

He  had  the  sense  of  humor,  and  ift  one  place 
indulges  himself  in  some  Latin  fun,  where  he  names 
the  wild  apples,  creatures  of  his  fancy.  "  There 
is,  first  of  all,  the  wood-apple,  Mains  sylvatica ; 
the  blue-jay  apple  ;  the  apple  which  grows  in  dells 
in  the  woods,  sylvestrivallis ;  also 'in  hollows  in 
pastures,  campestrivallis ;  the  apple  that  grows 
in  an  old  cellar-hole,  Malus  cellaris  ;  the  meadow- 
apple  ;  the  partridge-apple  ;  the  truants'  apple,  ces- 
satoris ;  the  saunterer's  apple,  —  you  most  lose 
yourself  before  you  can  find  the  way  to  that ;  the 
beauty  of  the  air,  decus  aeris  ;  December-eating  ;  the 
frozen-thawed,  gelato-soluta ;  the  brindled  apple; 
wine  of  New  England ;  the  chickaree  apple ;  the 
green  apple,  —  this  has  many  synonym es  ;  in  its 


HIS   WRITINGS.  233 

perfect  state  it  is  the  Cholera  morbifera  aut  dysente- 
rifera,  puerulis  dilectissima;  the  hedge-apple,  Ma- 
lus  sepium ;  the  slug  apple,  limacea;  the  apple 
whose  fruit  we  tasted  in  our  youth  ;  our  particular 
apple,  not  to  be  found  in  any  catalogue,  pedestrium 
solatium,"  and  many  others.  His  love  of  this  sour 
vegetable  is  characteristic :  it  is  the  wild  flavor, 
the  acidity,  the  difficulty  of  eating  it,  which  pleased. 
To  no  gastronomic  societies  Thoreau  appertained, 
unless  drawn  there  by  the  butt.  The  lover  of  gravy, 
the  justice  lined  with  capon,  apoplectic  professors 
in  purple  skulls  who  reckon  water  a  nuisance, 
never  loved  his  pen  that  praised  poverty :  "  Quid 
est  paupertas?  odibile  bonum,  sanitatis  mater, 
curarum  remotio,  absque  sollicitudine  semita,  sa- 
pientise  reparatrix,  negotium  sine  damno,  intracta- 
bilis  substantia,  possessio  absque  calumnia,  incerta 
fortuna,  sine  sollicitudine  felicitas."  * 

Or  in  what  he  names  complemental  verses  :  — - 

"  Thou  dost  presume  too  much,  poor  needy  wretch, 
To  claim  a  station  in  the  firmament, 
Because  thy  humble  cottage,  or  thy  tub, 
Nurses  some  lazy  or  pedantic  virtue, 
With  roots  and  pot-herbs.     We,  more  high,  advance 
Such  virtues  only  as  admit  excess,  — 
Brave,  bounteous  acts,  regal  magnificence 

*  A  free  rendition  :  "  What  is  poverty  ?  Kerosene  lamps,  tak 
ing  tea  out,  Dalley's  pain-killer,  horse-cars,  scolding  help,  book 
seller's  accounts,  modern  rubber  boots,  what  nobody  discounts,  the 
next  tax-bill,  sitting  in  your  minister's  pew." 


234  N  THOEEAU. 

All-seeing  prudence,  magnanimity 

That  knows  no  bound,  and  that  heroic  virtue 

For  which  antiquity  hath  left  no  name, 

But  patterns  only,  such  as  Hercules, 

Achilles,  Theseus  ;  —  back  to  thy  loath'd  cell !  " 

He  had  that  pleasant  art  of  convertibility,  by 
which  he  could  render  the  homely  strains  of  Nature 
into  homely  verse  and  prose,  holding  yet  the  flavor 
of  their  immortal  origins  ;  while  meagre  and  barren 
writers  upon  science  do  perhaps  intend  to  describe 
that  quick  being  of  which  they  prose,  yet  never 
loose  a  word  of  happiness  or  humor.  The  art  of 
describing  realities,  and  imparting  to  them  a  touch 
of  human  nature,  is  something  comfortable.  A 
few  bits  of  such  natural  history  as  this  follow  :  — 

"  A  hornets'-nest  I  discovered  in  a  rather  tall 
huckleberry-bush,  the  stem  projecting  through  it, 
the  leaves  spreading  over  it.  How  these  fellows 
avail  themselves  of  these  vegetables  !  They  kept 
arriving,  the  great  fellows  (with  white  abdomens), 
but  I  never  saw  whence  they  came,  but  only  heard 
the  buzz  just  at  the  entrance.  At  length,  after  I 
had  stood  before  the  nest  for  five  minutes,  during 
which  time  they  had  taken  no  notice  of  me,  two 
seemed  to  be  consulting  at  the  entrance,  and  then 
made  a  threatening  dash  at  me,  and  returned  to  the 
nest.  I  took  the  hint  and  retired.  They  spoke  as 
plainly  as  man  could  have  done.  I  examined  this 
nest  again :  I  found  no  hornets  buzzing  about ;  the 


HIS   WRITINGS.  235 

entrance  seemed  to  have  been  enlarged,  so  I  con 
cluded  it  had  been  deserted,  but  looking  nearer  I 
discovered  two  or  three  dead  hornets,  men-of-war, 
in  the  entry-way.  Cutting  off  the  bushes  which 
sustained  it,  I  proceeded  to  open  it  with  my  knife. 
It  was  an  inverted  cone,  eight  or  nine  inches  by 
seven  or  eight.  First,  there  were  half-a-dozen  lay 
ers  of  waved,  brownish  paper  resting  loosely  over 
one  another,  occupying  nearly  an  inch  in  thickness, 
for  a  covering.  Within  were  the  six-sided  cells,  in 
three  stories,  suspended  from  the  roof  and  from  one 
another  by  one  or  two  suspension-rods  only;  the 
lower  story  much  smaller  than  the  rest.  And  in 
what  may  be  called  the  attic  or  garret  of  the  struct 
ure  were  two  live  hornets  partially  benumbed 
with  cold.  It  was  like  a  deserted  castle  of  the 
Mohawks,  a  few  dead  ones  at  the  entrance  to  the 
fortress.  The  prinos  beTries  (Prinos  verticillatus) 
are  quite  red ;  the  dogwood  has  lost  every  leaf,  its 
bunches  of  dry,  greenish  berries  hanging  straight 
down  from  the  bare  stout  twigs,  as  if  their  pedun 
cles  were  broken.  It  has  assumed  its  winter  as 
pect, —  a  Mithridatic  look.  The  black  birch  (JBetula 
lento}  is  straw-colored,  the  witch-hazel  {Hamamelis 
Virginica)  is  now  in  bloom.  I  perceive  the  fra 
grance  of  ripe  grapes  in  the  air.  The  little  conical 
burrs  of  the  agrimony  stick  to  my  clothes ;  the  pale 
lobelia  still  blooms  freshly,  and  the  rough  hawk- 


236  THOEEAU. 

weed  holds  up  its  globes  of  yellowish  fuzzy  seeds, 
as  well  as  the  panicled.  The  declining  sun  falling 
on  the  willows  and  on  the  water  produces  a  rare, 
soft  light  I  do  not  often  see,  —  a  greenish-yellow. 

"  Thus,  perchance,  the  Indian  hunter, 

Many  a  lagging  year  agone, 
Gliding  o'er  thy  rippling  waters, 
Lowly  hummed  a  natural  song. 

"  Now  the  sun  's  behind  the  willows, 
Now  he  gleams  along  the  waves, 
Faintly  o'er  the  wearied  billows 
Come  the  spirits  of  the  braves. 

"  The  reach  of  the  river  between  Bedford  and 
Carlisle,  seen  from  a  distance,  has  a  strangely  ethe 
real,  celestial,  or  elysian  look.  It  is  of  a  light  sky- 
blue,  alternating  with  smoother  white  streaks,  where 
the  surface  reflects  the  light  differently,  like  a  milk- 
pan  full  of  the  milk  of  Valhalla  partially  skimmed, 
more  gloriously  arid  heavenly  fair  and  pure  than 
the  sky  itself.  We  have  names  for  the  rivers  of 
hell,  but  none  for  the  rivers  of  heaven,  unless  the 
Milky  Way  may  be  one.  It  is  such  a  smooth  and 
shining  blue,  like  a  panoply  of  sky-blue  plates,  — 

'  Sug'ring  all  dangers  with  success/ 

46  Fairhaven  pond,  seen  from  the  cliffs  in  the 
moonlight,  is  a  sheeny  lake  of  apparently  a  bound 
less  primitive  forest,  untrodden  by  man  ;  the  windy 


HIS   WHITINGS.  237 

surf  sounding  freshly  and  wildly  in  the  single 
pine  behind  you,  the  silence  of  hushed  wolves  in 
the  wilderness,  and,  as  you  fancy,  moose  looking 
off  from  the  shores  of  the  lake ;  the  stars  of  poe 
try  and  history  and  unexplored  nature  looking 
down  on  the  scene.  This  light  and  this  hour 
takes  the  civilization  all  out  of  the  landscape. 
Even  at  this  time  in  the  evening  (8  P.M.)  the 
crickets  chirp  and  the  small  birds  peep,  the  wind 
roars  in  the  wood,  as  if  it  were  just  before  dawn. 
The  landscape  is  flattened  into  mere  light  and 
shade,  from  the  least  elevation.  A  field  of  ripen 
ing  corn,  now  at  night,  that  has  been  topped,  with 
the  stalks  stacked  up,  has  an  inexpressibly  dry, 
sweet,  rich  ripening  scent :  I  feel  as  I  were  an  ear 
of  ripening  corn  myself.  Is  not  the  whole  air  a 
compound  of  such  odors  indistinguishable  ?  drying 
corn-stalks  in  a  field,  what  an  herb  garden  I  What 
if  one  moon  has  come  and  gone  with  its  world  of 
poetry,  so  divine  a  creature  freighted  with  its  hints 
for  me,  and  I  not  use  them." 

He  loved  the  no'kv^oiG^oLo  ftcJUnnfty?,  the  noisy  sea, 
and  has  left  a  pleasant  sketch  of  his  walks  along  the 
beach ;  but  he  never  attempted  the  ocean  passage. 
The  shore  at  Truro,  on  Cape  Cod,  which  he  at  one 
time  frequented,  has  been  thus  in  part  described. 

A  little  Hamlet  hid  away  from  men, 
Spoil  for  no  painter's  eye,  no  poet's  pen, 


238  THOREAU. 

Modest  as  some  brief  flower,  concealed,  obscure, 
It  nestles  on  the  high  and  echoing  shore ; 
Yet  here  I  found  I  was  a  welcome   guest, 
At  generous  Nature's  hospitable  feast. 
The  barren  moors  no  fences  girdled  high, 
The  endless  beaches  planting  could  defy, 
And  the  blue  sea  admitted  all  the  air, 
A  cordial  draught,  so  sparkling  and  so  rare. 

The  aged  widow  in  her  cottage  lone, 

Of  solitude  and  musing  patient  grown, 

Could  let  me  wander  o'er  her  scanty  fields, 

And  pick  the  flower  that  contemplation  yields. 

This  vision  past,  and  all  the  rest  was  mine,  — 

The  gliding  vessel  on  the  ocean's  line, 

That  left  the  world  wherein  my  senses  strayed, 

Yet  long  enough  her  soft  good-by  delayed 

To  let  my  eye  engross  her  beauty  rare, 

Kissed  by  the  seas,  an  infant  of  the  air. 

Thou,  too,  wert  mine,  the  green  and  curling  wave, 

Child  of  the  sand,  a  playful  child  and  brave ; 

Urged  on  the  gale,  the  crashing  surges  fall ; 

The  zephyr  breathes,  how  softly  dances  all ! 

Dread  ocean- wave !  some  eyes  look  out  o'er  thee 
And  fill  with  tears,  and  ask,  Could  such  things  be  ? 
Why  slept  the  All-seeing  Heart  when  death  was  near? 
.Be  hushed  each  doubt,  assuage  thy  throbbing  fear! 
Think  One  who  made  the  sea  and  made  the  wind 
Might  also  feel  for  our  lost  human  kind ; 
And  they  who  sleep  amid  the  surges  tall 
Summoned  great  Nature  to  their  funeral, 


HIS   WAITINGS.  239 

And  she  obeyed.     "We  fall  not  far  from  shore ; 
The  sea-bird's  wail,  the  surf,  our  loss  deplore ; 
The  melancholy  main  goes  sounding  on 
His  world-old  anthem  o'er  our  horizon. 

As  Turner  was  in  the  habit  of  adding  what  he 
thought  explanatory  verses  to  his  landscapes,  so  it 
may  be  said  of  some  books,  besides  the  special  sub 
ject  treated  they  are  diversified  with  quotations. 
Thoreau  adhered  closely  to  his  topic,  yet  in  his 
"  Week"  as  many  as  a  hundred  authors  are  quoted, 
and  there  are  more  than  three  hundred  passages 
either  cited  or  touched  upon.  In  fact,  there  are  some 
works  that  have  rather  a  peculiar  value  for  literary 
gentry,  like  Pliny,  Montaigne,  and  Burton's  Anat 
omy  of  Melancholy,  upon  which  last  work  it  was 
the  opinion  of  Lord  Byron  many  authors  had  con 
structed  a  reputation. 

A  list  follows  of  the  writings  of  Thoreau,  as 
they  appeared  chronologically.  These  have  been 
since  printed  in  separate  volumes,  if  they  did  not 
so  appear  at  first  (with  few  exceptions),  under  the 
titles  of  "  Excursions,  1863,"  "  The  Maine  Woods, 
1864,"  "  A  Yankee  in  Canada,  1866,"  "  Cape  Cod, 
1865,"  and  in  addition  a  volume  of  letters,  1865. 
These  works  were  printed  in  Boston  :  — 

A  WALK  TO  WACTIUSETT.  —  In  the  "  Boston  Miscellany." 
IN  THK  DIAL.  — 1840-1844:  — 

Vol.  I.  —  Sympathy.     Aiilus  Persius  Flaccus.     Nature  doth 
have  her  dawn  each  day. 


240  TI10REAU.' 

Vol.  TT.  —  Sic  Vita.     Friendship. 

Vol.  III.  —  Natural  History  of  Massachusetts.  In  "  Prayers," 
the  passage  beginning  "  Great  God."  The  Black  Knight. 
The  Inward  Morning.  Free  Love.  The  Poet's  Delay. 
Rumors  from  an  ^Eolian  Harp.  The  Moon.  To  the 
Maiden  in  the  East.  The  Summer  Rain.  The  Laws  of 
Menu.  Prometheus  Bound.  Anacreon.  To  a  Stray 
Fowl.  Orphics.  Dark  Ages. 

Vol.  IV.  — A  Winter  Walk.  Homer,  Ossian,  Chaucer. 
Pindar.  Fragments  of  Pindar.  Herald  of  Freedom. 

IN  THE  DEMOCRATIC  REVIEW,  1843.  —  The  Landlord.  Para 
dise  (to  be)  Regained. 

IN  GRAHAM'S  MAGAZINE,  1847.  —  Thomas  Carlyle  and  his 
Works. 

IN  THE  UNION  MAGAZINE.  —  Ktaadn  and  the  Maine  Woods. 

IN  ^ESTHETIC  PAPERS.  —  Resistance  to  Civil  Government. 

A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD  AND  MERRIMAC  RIVERS.  Bos 
ton  :  James  Monroe  and  Company,  1849. 

IN  PUTNAM'S  MAGAZINE.  —  Excursion  to  Canada  (in  part). 
Cape  Cod  (in  part). 

WALDEN.     Boston  :  Ticknor  and  Company,  1854. 

IN  THE  LIBERATOR.  —  Speech  at  Framingham,  July  4th,  1854. 
Reminiscences  of  John  Brown  (read  at  North  Elba, 
July  4th,  1860). 

IN  "ECHOES  FROM  HARPER'S  FERRY." — 1860.  Lecture  on 
John  Brown,  and  Remarks  at  Concord  on  the  day  of  his 
execution. 

IN  THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY,  1 859.  —  Chesuncook,  1862. 
Walking.  Autumnal  Tints.  Wild  Apples. 

IN  THE  N.  Y.  TRIBUNE.  —  The  Succession  of  Forest  Trees 
(also  printed  in  the  Middlesex  Agricultural  Transactions). 
1860. 

"  Nihil  mihi  rescribas,  attamen  ipse  veni." 


PERSONALITIES.  241 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

PERSONALITIES. 


"  If  great  men  wrong  me,  I  will  spare  myself; 
If  mean,  I  will  spare  them."— DONNE. 

"As  soon  as  generals  are  dismembered  and  distributed  into  parts,  they 
become  so  much  attenuated  as  in  a  manner  to  disappear;  wherefore  the 
terms  by  which  they  are  expressed  undergo  the  same  attenuation,  and 
seem  to  vanish  and  fail."  —  SWEDENBORG. 

"  The  art  of  overturning  states  is  to  discredit  established  customs,  by  look 
ing  into  their  origin,  and  pointing  out  that  it  was  defective  in  authority  and 
justice."  —  PASCAL. 

"  Adspice  murorum  moles,  prseruptque  saxa, 
Obrutaque  horrenti  vasta  theatra  situ, 
Haec  sunt  Roma.    Viden'  velut  ipsa  cadavera  tantae 
Urbis  adhuc  spirent  imperiosa  minas."  —  JANUS  VITALIS. 


author's  life  can  be  divided  in  three  parts: 
first,  to  the  year  1837,  when  he  left  college ; 
next,  to  the  publishing  of  his  "  Week,"  in  1849 
(ten  years  after  his  excursion  up  the  Merrimac 
River,  of  which  that  work  treats)  ;  and  the  remain 
der  of  his  doings  makes  the  third.  It  was  after  he 
had  graduated  from  Alma  Mater  that  he  began  to 
embalm  his  thoughts  in  a  diary,  and  not  till  many 
years'  practice  did  they  assume  a  systematic  shape. 
This  same  year  (1837)  brought  him  into  relation 
11  p 


242  THOEEAU. 

with  a  literary  man,  by  which  his  mind  may  have 
been  first  soberly  impregnated  with  that  love  of 
letters  that  after  accompanied  him,  but  of  whom 
he  was  no  servile  copyist.  He  had  so  wisely  been 
nourished  at  the  collegiate  fount  as  to  come  forth 
undissipated ;  not  digging  his  grave  in  tobacco  and 
coffee,  —  those  two  perfect  causes  of  paralysis. 
"I  have  a  faint  recollection  of  pleasure  derived 
from  smoking  dried  lily-stems  before  I  was  a  man. 
I  have  never  smoked  any  thing'  more  noxious." 
His  school-keeping  was  a  nominal  occupancy  of  his 
time  for  a  couple  of  years ;  and  he  soon  began  to 
serve  the  mistress  to  whom  he  was  afterward 
bound,  and  to  sing  the  immunity  of  Pan.  Some 
long-anticipated  excursion  set  the  date  upon  the 
year,  and  furnished  its  materials  for  the  journal. 
And  at  length,  in  1842,  he  printed  in  a  fabulous 
quarterly,  "The  Dial,""  a  paper;  and  again,  in 
1843,  came  out  "The  Walk  to  Wachusett,"  a 
bracing  revival  of  exhilarating  thoughts  caught 
from  the  mountain  atmosphere.  In  this  same 
came  the  poems  before  commented  upon,  and  it 
afforded  him  sufficient  space  to  record  his  pious 
hopes  and  sing  the  glories  of  the  world  he  habit 
ually  admired.  With  the  actual  publication  of  the 
"  Week,"  at  his  own  expense,  and  which  cost  him 
his  labor  for  several  years  to  defray,  begins  a  new 
era, — he  is  introduced  to  a  larger  circle  and 


PERSONALITIES.  243 

launches  forth  his  paper  nautilus,  well  pleased  to 
eye  its  thin  and  many-colored  ribs  shining  in  the 
watery  sunshine.  His  early  friends  and  readers 
never  failed,  and  others  increased  ;  thus  was  he 
rising  in  literary  fame,  — 

"  That  like  a  wounded  snake  drags  its  slow  length  along." 

Then  came  the  log-book  of  his  woodland  cruise  at 
Walden,  his  critical  articles  upon  Thomas  Carlyle 
and  others ;  and  he  began  to  appear  as  a  lecturer, 
with  a  theory,  as  near  as  he  could  have  one.  He 
was  not  to  try  to  suit  his  audience,  but  consult 
the  prompting  of  his  genius  and  suit  himself.  If  a 
demand  was  made  for  a  lecture,  he  would  gratify 
it  so  far  as  in  him  lay,  but  he  could  not  descend 
from  the  poetry  of  insight  to  the  incubation  of 
prose.  Lecture  committees  at  times  failed  to  see 
the  prophetic  god,  and  also  the  statute-putty. 
"  Walden  "  increased  his  repute  as  a  writer,  if 
some  great  men  thought  him  bean-dieted,  with  an 
owl  for  his  minister,  and  who  milked  creation,  not 
the  cow.  It  is  in  vain  for  the  angels  to  contend 
against  stupidity. 

/He  began  to  take  more  part  in  affairs,  the  Anti 
slavery  crisis  coming  to  the  boil  in  1857.     Captain 
John  Brown,  after  of  Harper's  Ferry,  was  in  Con 
cord  that  year,  and  had  talk  with  Thoreau,  who 
knew  nothing  of  his  revolutionary  plans.     He  shot 


244  THOEEAU. 

off  plenty  of  coruscating  abolition  rockets  at  Fra- 
mingham  and  elsewhere,  and  took  his  chance  in 
preaching  at  those  animated  free-churches  which 
pushed  from  the  rotting  compost  of  the  Southern 
hot-bed.  At  Worcester  he  is  said  to  have  read 
a  damaging-institution  lecture  upon  "  Beans,"  that 
has  never  got  to  print,  f  He  carried  more  guns  at 
these  irritable  reform  meetings,  which  served  as 
a  discharge-pipe  for  the  virus  of  all  the  regular 
scolds,  as  he  did  not  spatter  by  the  job?)  At  the 
time  of  Sims's  rendition  he  offered  to  his  townsmen 
that  the  revolutionary  monument  should  be  thickly 
coated  with  black  paint  as  a  symbol  of  that  dismal 
treason.  He,  too,  had  the  glory  of  speaking  the 
first  public  good  word  for  Captain  John  Brown 
after  his  attack  upon  the  beast  run  for  the  Amer 
ican  plate,  —  that  Moloch  entered  by  Jeff.  Davis 
and  backers.  In  three  years  more  the  United 
States,  that  killed  instead  of  protecting  bold  Ossa- 
watomie,  was  enlisting  North  Carolina  slaves  to 
fight  against  Virginia  slaveholders. 

It  must  be  considered  the  superior  and  divine 
event  of  his  human  experience  when  that  famed 
hero  of  liberty  forced  the  serpent  of  slavery 
from  its  death-grasp  on  the  American  Constitution. 
John  Brown  "  expected  to  endure  hardness ;  "  and 
this  was  the  expectation  and  fruition  of  Thoreau, 
naturally  and  by  his  culture.  (His  was  a  more  sour 


PERSONALITIES.  245 

and  saturnine  hatred  of  injustice,  his  life  was  more 
passive,  and  he  lost  the  glory  of  action  which  fell 
to  the  lot  of  Brown. J (He  had  nought  in  his 
thoughts  of  which  a  plot  could  spin  ;  neither  did  he 
believe  in  civil  government,  or  that  form  of  police 
against  the  Catiline  or  Caesar  who  has  ready  a 
coup  d'etat,  such  as  the  speckled  Napoleonic  egg, 
now  addled,  that  was  laid  in  Paris.])  (^Thoreau 
worshipped  a  hero  in  a  mortal  disguise,  under  the 
shape  of  that  homely  son  of  justice :  his  pulses 
thrilled  and  his  hands  involuntarily  clenched  to 
gether  at  the  mention  of  Captain  Brown,  at  whose 
funeral  in  Concord  he  said  a  few  words,  and v pre 
pared  a  version  of  Tacitus  upon  Agricola,  some 
lines  of  which  are  furnished :  — } 

"  You,  Agricola,  are  fortunate,  not  only  because 
your  life  was  glorious,  but  because  your  death  was 
timely.  As  they  tell  us  who  heard  your  last  words, 
unchanged  and  willing  you  accepted  your  fate. 
.  .  .  Let  us  honor  you  by  our  -admiration,  rather 
than  by  short-lived  praises ;  and,  if  Nature  aid  us, 
by  our  emulation  of  you."  He  had  before  said: 
"  When  I  now  look  over  my  common-place  book  of 
poetry,  I  find  that  the  best  of  it  is  oftenest  appli 
cable,  in  part  or  wholly,  to  the  case  of  Captain 
Brown.  The  sense  of  grand  poetry,  read  by  the 
light  of  this  event,  is  brought  out  distinctly  like 
an  invisible  writing  held  to  the  fire.  As  Marvell 
wrote  :  — 


246  THOEEAU. 

'  When  the  sword  glitters  o'er  the  judge's  head, 
And  fear  has  coward  churchmen  silenced, 
Then  is  the  poet's  time  ;  'tis  then  he  draws, 
And  single  fights  forsaken  virtue's  cause  : 
Sings  still  of  ancient  rights  and  better  times, 
Seeks  suffering  good,  arraigns  successful  crimes/ 

"  And  George  Chapman :  — 

'  There  is  no  danger  to  a  man  who  knows 
What  life  and  death  is  ;  there  's  not  any  law 
Exceeds  his  knowledge.' 

"  And  Wotton :  — 

'  Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed, 

Of  hope  to  rise  or  fear  to  fall; 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands, 
S     And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all.' " 

The  foundation  of  his  well-chosen  attainment  in 
Modern  and  Classic  authors  dates  from  the  origin 
of  his  literary  life.  Jn...  college  he  studied  only 
what  was  best,  and  made  it  the  rule.  He  could  say 
to  young  students :  "  Begin  with  the  best !  start 
with  what  is  so,  never  deviate."  That  part  of 
American  history  he  studied  was  pre-pilgrim  :  the 
Jesuit  relations,  early  New  England  authors,  Wood, 
Smith,  or  Josselyn,  afforded  him  cordial  entertain 
ment.  Henry's  Travels,  Lewis  and  Clark,  and  such 
books,  he  knew  remarkably  well,  and  thought  no  one 
had  written  better  accounts  of  things  and  made  them 
more  livingjfchan  Goethe  in  his  letters  from  Italy. 

Alpine  and  sea-side  plants  he  admired,  besides 


PERSONALITIES.  247 

those  of  his  own  village  :  of  the  latter,  he  mostly 
attended  willows,  golden-rods,  asters,  polygonums, 
sedges,  and  grasses ;  fungi  and  lichens  he  some 
what  affected.  He  was  accustomed  to  date  the 
day  of  the  month  by  the  appearance  of  certain  flow 
ers,  and  thus  visited  special  plants  for  a  series  of 
years,  in  order  to  form  an  average  ;  as  his  white 
thorn  by  Tarbell's  Spring,  "  good  for  to-morrow,  if 
not  for  to-day."  The  bigness  of  noted  trees,  the 
number  of  rings,  the  degree  of  branching  by  which 
their  age  may  be  drawn,  the  larger  forests,  such  as 
that  princely  "  Inches  Oak-wood  "  in  West  Acton, 
or  Wetherbee's  patch,  he  paid  attentions  to.  Here 
he  made  his  cards,  and  left  more  than  a  pack  ;  his 
friends  were  surely  disengaged,  unless  they  had  cut 
off.  He  could  sink  down  in  the  specific  history 
of  a  woodland  by  learning  what  trees  now  oc 
cupied  the  soil.  In  some  seasons  he  bored  a  vari 
ety  of  forest  trees,  when  the  sap  was  amiable,  and 
made  his  black-birch  and  other  light  wines.  He 
tucked  plants  away  in  his  soft  hat  in  place  of  a  bot 
any-box.  JEIis  study  fa  place  in  the  garret). held  its 
dry  miscellany  of  botanical  specimens  ;  its  corner  of 
canes,  its  cases  of  eggs  and  lichens,  and  a  weight 
of  Indian  arrow-heads  and  hatchets,  besides  a  store 
of  nuts,  of  which  he  was  as  fond  as  squirrels. 
"  Man  comes  out  of  his  winter  quarters  in  March 
as  lean  as  a  woodchuck." 


248  THOSE  AU. 

In  the  varieties  of  tracks  he  was  a  philologist, 
and  read  that  primeval  language,  and  studied  the 
snow  for  them,  as  well  as  for  its  wonderful  blue 
and  pink  colors,  and  its  floccular  deposits  as  it 
melts.  He  saw  that  hunter's  track  who  always  steps 
before  you  come.  Ice  in  all  its  lines  and  polish  he 
peculiarly  admired.  From  Billerica  Falls  to  Saxon- 
ville  ox-bow,  thirty  miles  or  more,  he  sounded  the 
deeps  and  shallows  of  the  Concord  River,  and  put 
down  in  his  tablets  that  he  had  such  a  feeling.  Gos 
samer  was  a  shifting  problem,  beautifully  vague :  — 

"  A  ceaseless  glimmering  near  the  ground  betrays 
The  gossamer,  its  tiny  thread  is  waving  past, 
Borne  on  the  wind's  faint  breath,  and  to  yon  branch, 
Tangled  and  trembling,  clings  like  snowy  silk." 

Insects  were  fascinating,  from  the  first  gray  little 
moth,  the  perla,  born  in  February's  deceitful  glare, 
and  the  "  fuzzy  gnats  "  that  people  the  gay  sun 
beams,  to  the  last  luxuriating  Vanessa  antiope,  that 
gorgeous  purple-velvet  butterfly  somewhat  wrecked 
amid  November's  champaign  breakers.  He  sought 
for  and  had  honey-bees  in  the  close  spaihe  of  the 
-marsh-cabbage,  when  the  eye  could  detect  no  open 
ing  of  the  same ;  water-bugs,  skaters,  carrion 
beetles,  devil's-needles  ("  the  French  call  them 
demoiselles,  the  artist  loves  to  paint  them,  and 
paint  must  be  cheap  "}  ;  the  sap-green,  glittering, 
irridescent  cicindelas,  those  lively  darlings  of  New- 


PERSONALITIES.  249 

bury  sandbanks  and  Professor  Peck,  he  lingered 
over  as  heaven's  never- to-be-repainted  Golconda. 
Hornets,  wasps,  bees,  and  spiders,  and  their  several 
nests,  he  carefully  attended.  The  worms  and  cater 
pillars,  washed  in  the  spring-freshets  from  the  mead 
ow-grass,  filled  his  soul  with  hope  at  the  profuse 
vermicular  expansion  of  Nature.  The  somersaults  of 
the  caracoling  stream  were  his  vital  pursuit,  which, 
slow  as  it  appears,  now  and  then  jumps  up  three  feet 
in  the  sacred  ash-barrel  of  the  peaceful  cellar. 
Hawks,  ducks,  sparrows,  thrushes,  and  migrating 
warblers,  in  all  their  variety,  he  carefully  perused 
with  his  field-glass, —  an  instrument  purchased  with 
toilsome  discretion,  and  carried  in  its  own  strong 
case  and  pocket.  Thoreau  named  all  the  birds 
without  a  gun,  a  weapon  he  never  used  in  ma 
ture  years,  f  He  neither  killed  nor  imprisoned  any 
animal,  unless  driven  by  acute  needs.  J  He  brought 
home  a  flying  squirrel,  to  study  its  mode  of  flight, 
but  quickly  carried  it  back  to  the  wood. 

He  possessed  true  instincts  of  topography,  and 
could  conceal  choice  things  in  the  brush  and  find 
them  again,  unlike  Gall,  who  commonly  lost  his 
locality  and  himself,  as  he  tells  us,  when  in  the 
wood,  master  as  he  was  in  playing  on  the  organ. 
If  he  needed  a  box  on  his  walk,  he  would  strip  a 
piece  of  birch-bark  off  the  tree,  fold  it  when  cut 
straightly  together,  and  put  his  tender  lichen  or 
11* 


250  THOREAU. 

brittle  creature  therein.  In  those  irritable  thunder 
claps  which  come,  he  says,  "  with  tender,  graceful 
violence,"  he  sometimes  erected  a  transitory  house 
by  means  of  his  pocket-knife,  rapidly  paring  away 
the  white-pine  and  oak,  taking  the  lower  limbs  of 
a  large  tree  and  pitching  on  the  cut  brush  for  a  roof. 
Here  he  sat,  pleased  with  the  minute  drops  from 
off  the  eaves,  not  questioning  the  love  of  electric 
ity  for  trees.  If  out  on  the  river,  haul  up  your 
boat,  turn  it  upside-down,  and  yourself  under  it. 
Once  he  was  thus  doubled  up,  when  Jove  let  drop 
a  pattern  thunderbolt  in  the  river  in  front  of  his 
boat,  while  he  whistled  a  lively  air  as  accompani 
ment.  This  is  noted,  as  he  was  much  distressed 
by  storms  when  young,  and  used  to  go  whining  to 
his  father's  room,  and  say,  "  I  don't  feel  well," 
and  then  take  shelter  in  the  paternal  arms,  when 
his  health  improved. 

"  His  little  son  into  his  bosom  creeps, 
The  lovely  image  of  his  father's  face." 

While  walking  in  the  woods,  he  delighted  to  give 
the  falling  leaves  as  much  noise  and  rustle  as  he 
could,  all  the  while  singing  some  cheerful  stave, 
thus  celebrating  the  pedestrian's  service  to  Pan  as 
well  as  to  the  nymphs  and  dryads,  who  never  live 
in  a  dumb  asylum. 

"  The  squirrel  chatters  merrily, 
The  nut  falls  ripe  and  brown, 


PERSONALITIES.  251 

And,  gem-like,  from  the  jewelled  tree 

The  leaf  comes  fluttering  down  ; 
And,  restless  in  his  plumage  gay, 
From  bush  to  bush  loud  screams  the  jay." 

Nothing  pleased  him  better  than  our  native  vin 
tage  days,  when  the  border  of  the  meadows  be 
comes  a  rich  plantation,  whose  gathering  has  been 
described  in  the  lines  that  follow  :  — 

WILD    GRAPES. 

"  Bring  me  some  grapes,"  she  cried,  "  some  clusters 

bring, 

Herbert,  with  large  flat  leaves,  the  purple  founts." 
Then  answering  he,  —  "  Ellen,  if  in  the  days 
When  on  the  river's  bank  hang  ripely  o'er 
The  tempting  bunches  red,  and  fragrance  fills 
The  clear  September  air,  if  then  "  —     "  Ah !  then, " 
Broke  in  the  girl,  —  "  then  "  — 

September  coming, 

Herbert,  the  day  of  all  those  sun-spoiled  days 
Quite  petted  by  him  most,  wishing  to  choose, 
Alone  set  off  for  the  familiar  bank 
Of  the  blue  river,  nor  to  Ellen  spake  ; 
That  thing  of  moods  long  since  forgetting  all 
Request  or  promise  floating  o'er  the  year. 
On  bis  right  arm  a  white  ash  basket  swung, 
Its  depth  a  promise  of  its  coming  stores ; 
While  the  fair  boy,  o'ertaking  in  his  thought 
Those  tinted  bubbles,  the  best  lover's  game, 
Sped  joyous  on  through  the  clear  mellowing  day. 
At  length  he  passed  Fairhaven's  cliff,  whose  front 


252  TEOEEAU. 

Shuts  in  this  curve  of  shore,  and  soon  he  sees 
The  harvest-laden  vine. 

Large  hopes  were  his, 
And  with  a  bounding  step  he  leaped  along 
O'er  the  close  cranberry-beds,  his  trusty  foot 
Oft  lighting  on  the  high  elastic  tufts 
Of  the  promiscuous  sedge.     Alas,  for  hope, 
As  some  deliberate  hand  those  vines  had  picked 
By  most  subtracting  rule !  yet  on  the  youth 
More  eager  sprang,  dreaming  of  prizes  rare. 
To  the  blue  river's  floor  fell  the  green  marsh, 
And  a  white  mountain  cloud-range  slowly  touched 
The  infinite  zenith  of  September's  heaven. 
"  I  have  you  now ! "  cried  Herbert,  tearing  through 
The  envious  thorny  thicket  to  the  vines, 
Crushing  the  alder  sticks,  where  rustling  leaves 
Conceal  the  rolling  stones  and  wild-rose  stems, 
And  always  in  the  cynic  cat-briar  pricked. 
"  I  have  you  now ! " 

And  rarely  on  the  scope 
Of  bold  adventurer,  British  or  Spaniard, 
Loomed  Indian  coasts  till  then  a  poet's  dream, 
More  glad  to  them  than  this  Etruscan  vase 
On  his  rash  eyes,  reward  of  hope  deferred. 
There  swum  before  him  in  the  magic  veil 
Of  that  soft  shimmering  autumn  afternoon, 
On  the  black  speckled  alders,  on  the  ground, 
On  leaf  and  pebble  flat  or  round,  the  light 
Of  purple  grapes,  purple  or  bloomed, 
And  the  few  saintly  bunches  Muscat-white ! 


ERSONALITIES.  253 

Nor  Herbert  paused,  nor  looked  at  half  his  wealth, 

As  in  his^  wild  delight  he  grasped  a  bunch, 

And  till  his  fingers  burst  still  grasped  a  bunch, 

Heaping  the  great  ash  basket  till  its  cave 

No  further  globe  could  hold.     And  then  he  stopped, 

And  from  a  shrivelled  stub  picked  off  three  grapes, 

Those  which  he  ate. 

'Tis  right  he  wreathe  about 
This  heaped  and  purple  spoil  that  he  has  robbed 
Those  fresh  unfrosted  leaves  green  in  the  shade, 
And  then  he  weighs  upon  his  hand  the  prize 
And  springs,  —  the  Atlas  on  his  nervous  arm. 
Now  buried  'neath  the  basket  Herbert  sunk, 
Or  seemed,  and  showers  of  drops  tickled  his  cheeks, 
Yet  with  inhuman  nerve  he  struggles  on. 
At  times  the  boy,  half  fainting  in  his  march, 
Saw  twirl  in  coils  the  river  at  his  feet, 
Reflecting  madly  the  still  woods  and  hills, 
The  quiet  cattle  painted  on  the  pool 
In  far-off  pastures,  and  the  musing  clouds 
That  scarcely  sailed,  or  seemed  to  sail,  at  all. 
Till  the  strong  shadows  soothed  the  ruby  trees 
To  one  autumnal  black,  how  hot  the  toil, 
With  glowing  cheeks  coursed  by  the  exacted  tide, 
Aching  yet  eager,  resolute  to  win, 
Nor  leave  a  berry  though  his  shoulder  snap. 

Within  the  well-known  door  his  tribute  placed, 
A  fragrance  of  Italian  vineyards  leagued 
The  dear  New  English  farm-house  with  sweet  shore? 
In  spicy  archipelagoes  of  gold, 


254  THOREAU. 

Where  the  sun  cannot  set,  but  fades  to  moonlight, 
And  tall  maids  support  amphoras  on  their  brows. 

And  Ellen  ran,  all  Hebe,  down  the  stair 

Almost  at  one  long  step,  and  while  the  youth  still  stood, 

And  wonder  stricken  how  he  reached  that  door, 

She  cried,  "  Dear  mother,  fly  and  see   this   world  of 

grapes." 
Then  Herbert  puffed  two  seconds,  and  went  in. 

And  much  fresh  enjoyment  he  would  have  felt 
in  the  observing  wisdom  of  that  admirably  en 
dowed  flower-writer,  Annie  S.  Downs,  a  child  of 
Concord  (the  naturalist's  heaven),  full  of  useful 
knowledge,  and  with  an  out-of-doors  heart  like  his ; 
a  constant  friend  to  flowers,  ferns,  and  mosses,  with 
an  affectionate  sympathy,  and  a  taste  fine  and  un 
erring  reflected  by  the  exquisite  beings  she  justly 
celebrates.  Must  she  not  possess  a  portion  of  the 
snowdrop's  prophecy  herself  as  to  her  writings  and 
this  world's  winter  ?  when  she  says :  — 

'  The  tender  Snowdrop,  erect  and  brave, 

Gayly  sprang  from  her  snow-strewn  bed. 
She  doubted  not  there  was  sunshine  warm 

To  welcome  her  shrinking  head  ; 
The  graceful  curves  of  her  slender  stem, 

The  sheen  of  her  petals  white, 
As  looking  across  the  bank  of  snow 

She  shone  like  a  gleam  of  light." 

Annie  S.  Downs  and  Alfred  B.  Street,  native 
American  writers  in  the  original  packages,  not  ex- 


PERSONALITIES.  255 

tended  by  the  critics,  —  writers,  under  the  provi 
dence  of  God,  to  be  a  blessing  to  those  who  love 
.His  works,  like  Thoreau ! 

On  being  asked  of  a  future  world  and  its  rewards 
and  punishments,  by  a  bore,  he  said,  "  Those  were 
voluntaries  I  did  not  take,"  and  he  did  not  bite  at 
a  clergyman's  skilfully  baited  hook  of  immortality, 
of  which  he  said  could  be  no  doubt.  He  spoke  of  the 
reserved  meaning  in  the  insect  metamorphosis  of  the 
moth,  painted  like  the  summer  sunrise,  that  makes 
its  escape  from  a  loathsome  worm,  and  cheats  the 
wintry  shroud,  its  chrysalis.  One  sweet  hour  of 
spring,  gazing  into  a  grassy-bottomed  pool,  where 
the  insect  youth  were  disporting,  the  gyrince  (boat 
flies)  darting,  and  tadpoles  beginning,  like  maga 
zine  writers,  to  drop  their  tails,  he  said:  ".Yes, 
I  feel  positive  beyond  a  doubt,  I  must  pass 
through  all  these  conditions,  one  day  and  another ; 
I  must  go  the  whole  round  of  life,  and  come  full 
circle." 

If  he  had  reason  to  borrow  an  axe  or  plane,  his 
habit  was  to  return  it  more  sharply.  In  a  walk,  his 
companion,  a  citizen,  said,  "  I  do  not  see  where  you 
find  your  Indian  arrowheads."  Stooping  to  the 
ground,  Henry  picked  one  up,  and  presented  it  to 
him,  crying,  "  Here  is  one."  After  reading  and 
dreaming  on  the  Truro  shore  about  the  deeds  of  Cap 
tain  Kidd  and  wrecks  of  old  pirate  ships,  he  walked 


256  THOREAU 

out  after  dinner  on  the  beach,  and  found  a  five-franc 
piece  of  old  France,  saying,  "  I  thought  it  was  a 
button,  it  was  so  black ;  but  it  is  col-money  "  (the 
name  given  there  to  stolen  treasure).  He  said  of 
early  New  English  writers,  like  old  Josselyn,  "  They 
give  you  one  piece  of  nature,  at  any  rate,  and  that 
is  themselves,  smacking  their  lips  like  a  coach- whip, 
—  none  of  those  emasculated  modern  histories, 
such  as  Prescott's,  cursed  with  a  style." 

"  As  dead  low  earth  eclipses  and  controls 
The  quick  high  moon,  so  doth  the  body  souls." 

His  titles,  if  given  by  himself,  are  descriptive 
enough.  His  "  Week,"  with  its  chapters  of  days, 
is  agglutinative,  and  chains  the  whole  agreeably  in 
one,  — 

"  Much  like  the  corals  which  thy  wrist  enfold, 
Laced  up  together  in  congruity." 

"Autumnal  Tints"  and  "Wild  Apples"  are 
fair  country  invitations  to  a  hospitable  house :  the 
platter  adapts  itself  to  its  red-cheeked  shining  fruit. 
In  his  volume  called,  without  his  sensitiveness, 
"  Excursions,"  the  contents  look  like  essays,  but  are 
really  descriptions  drawn  from  his  journals.  Tho- 
reau,  like  some  of  his  neighbors,  could  not  mosaic 
an  essay ;  but  he  loved,  like  the  steady  shooting 
gossip,  to  tell  a  good  story.  He  lacked  the  starch 
and  buckram  that  vamps  the  Addison  and  Johnson 


PERSONALITIES.  257 

mimes.  His  letters  —  of  which  more  might  have 
been  printed  —  are  abominably  didactic,  fitted  to 
deepen  the  heroic  drain.  He  wasted  none  of  his 
precious  jewels,  his  moments,  upon  epistles  to 
the  class  of  Rosa  Matilda  invalids,  some  of  whom 
like  leeches  fastened  upon  his  hc«rny  cuticle,  but 
did  not  draw.  Of  this  gilt  vermoulu,  the  sugar- 
gingerbread  of  Sympathy,  Hawthorne  had  as 
much.  There  was  a  blank  simper,  an  insufficient 
sort  of  affliction,  -at  your  petted  sorrow,  in  the  sto'ry- 
teller,  — more  consoling  than  the  boiled  maccaroni 
of  pathos.  Hawthorne  —  swallowed  up  in  the 
wretchedness  Of  life,  in  that  sardonic  puritan  ele 
ment  that  drips  from  the  elms  of  his  birthplace 
—  thought  it  inexpressibly  ridiculous  that  any  one 
should  notice  man's  miseries,  these  being  his  staple 
product,  f  Thoreau  looked  upon  it  as  equally  non 
sense,  because  men  had  no  miseries  at  all  except 
those  of  indigestion  and  .laziness,  manufactured  to 
their  own  order.^  The  writer  of  fiction  could  not 
read  the  naturalist  probably  ;  and  Thoreau  had  no 
more  love  or  sympathy  for  fiction  in  books  than  in 
character.  "  Robinson  Crusoe  "  and  "  Sandford  and 
Merton,"  it  is  to  be  feared,  were  lost  on  him,  such 
was  his  abhorrence  of  lies.  Yet  in  the  stoical  fond 
of  their  characters  they  were  alike ;  and  it  is 
believed  that  Hawthorne  truly  admired  Thoreau. 
A  vein  of  humor  had  they  both ;  and  when  they 


258  TEOEEAU. 

laughed,  like  Shelley,  the  operation  was  sufficient 
to  split  a  pitcher.  Hawthorne  could  have  said: 
"  People  live  as  long  in  Pepper  Alley  as  on  Salis 
bury  Plain ;  and  they  live  so  much  happier  that  an 
inhabitant  of  the  first  would,  if  he  turned  cottager, 
starve  his  understanding  for  want  of  conversation, 
and  perish  in  a  state  of  mental  inferiority."  Henry 
would  never  believe  it. 

As  the  important  consequence  from  his  gradua 
tion  at  Harvard,  he  urged  upon  that  fading  lumi 
nary,  Jared  Sparks,  the  need  he  had  of  books  in  the 
library;  and  by  badgering  got  them  out.  His  per 
sistence  became  traditional.  His  incarceration  for 
one  night  in  Concord  jail,  because  he  refused  the 
payment  of  his  poll-tax,  is  described  in  his  tract, 
"  Civil  Disobedience,"  in  the  volume,  "  A  Yankee 
in  Canada."  In  this  is  his  signing-off:  "  I,  H.  D.  T., 
have  signed  off,  and  do  not  hold  myself  responsible 
to  your  multifarious,  uncivil  chaos,  named  Civil 
Government."  He  never  went  to  nor  voted  at  a 
town  meeting,  —  the  instrument  for  operating  upon 
a  New  England  village,  —  nor  to  "meeting"  or 
church  ;  nor  often  did  things  he  could  not  under 
stand.  In  these  respects  Hawthorne  mimicked 
him.  The  Concord  novelist  was  a  handsome,  bulky 
character,  with  a  soft  rolling  gait.  A  wit  said  he 
seemed  like  a  boned  pirate.  Shy  and  awkward, 
he  dreaded  the  stranger  in  his  gates ;  while,  as 


PERSONALITIES.  259 

inspector,  he  was  employed  to  swear  the  oaths 
versus  English  colliers.  When  surveyor,  finding 
rum  sent  to  the  African  coast  was  watered,  he 
vowed  he  would  not  ship  another  gill  if  it  was  any 
thing  but  pure  proof  spirit.  Such  was  his  justice 
to  the  oppressed.  One  of  the  things  he  most 
dreaded  was  to  be  looked  at  after  he  was  dead. 
Being  at  a  friend's  demise,"  of  whose  extinction  he 
had  the  care,  he  enjoyed  —  as  if  it  had  been  a 
scene  in  some  old  Spanish  novel  —  his  success  in 
keeping  the  waiters  from  stealing  the  costly  wines 
sent  in  for  the  sick.  Careless  of  heat  and  cold  in 
doors,  he  lived  in  an  JEolian-harp  house,  that  could 
not  be  warmed :  that  he  entered  it  by  a  trap-door 
from  a  rope-ladder  is  false.  Lovely,  amiable,  and 
charming,  his  absent-mindedness  passed  for  un 
social  when  he  was  hatching  a  new  tragedy.  As  a 
writer,  he  loves  the  morbid  and  the  lame.  The 
"Gentle  Boy"  and  "Scarlet  Letter"  eloped  with 
the  girls'  boarding-schools.  His  reputation  is  mas 
ter  of  his  literary  taste.  His  characters  are  not 
drawn  from  life  ;  his  plots  and  thoughts  are  often 
dreary,  as  he  was  himself  in  some  lights.  His  favor 
ite  writers  were  "  the  English  novelists,"  Boccaccio, 
Horace,  and  Johnson. 

A  few  lines  have  been  given  from  some  of  Tho- 
reau's  accepted  authors :  he  loved  Homer  for  his  na 
ture  ;  Virgil  for  his  finish ;  Chaucer  for  his  health ; 


260  THOEEAU. 

the  Robin  Hood  ballads  for  their  out-door  blooming 
life  ;  Ossian  for  his  grandeur ;  Persius  for  his  crab 
bed  philosophy  ;  Milton  for  his  neatness  and  swing. 
He  never  loved,  nor  did  any  thing  but  what  was 
good,  yet  he  sometimes  got  no  bargain  in  buying 
books,  as  in  "  Wright's  Provincial  Dictionary  ;  "  but 
he  prized  "  London's  Arboretum,"  of  which,  after 
thinking  of  its  purchase  and  saving  up  the  money 
for  years,  he  became  a  master.  It  was  an  affair 
with  him  to  dispense  his  hardly  earned  pistareen. 
He  lacked  the  suspicious  generosity,  the  disguise 
of  egoism:  on  him  peeling  or  appealing  were 
wasted  k  he  was  as  close  to  his  aim  as  the  bark  on 
a  treej  "  Virtue  is  its  own  reward,"  "  A  fool 
and  his  money  are  soon  parted."  His  property 
was  packed  like  seeds  in  a  sunflower.  There  was 
not  much  of  it,  but  that  remained.  He  had  not 
the  mirage  of  sympathies,  such  as  Gorchakoff  de 
scribes  as  wasted  upon  bare  Poles.  He  squeezed 
the  sandbanks  of  the  Marlboro'  road  with  the  soles 
of  his  feet  to  obtain  relief  for  his  head,  but  did 
not  throw  away  upon  unskilled  idleness  his  wage 
of  living.  No  one  was  freer  of  his  means  in  what 
he  thought  a  good  cause.  "  His  principal  and 
primary  business  was  to  be  a  poet :  he  was  a  natural 
man  without  design,  who  spoke  what  he  thought, 
and  just  as  he  thought  it."  Antiquities,  Montfau- 
con,  or  Grose,  bibliomania,  trifles  instead  of  value, 


PERSONALITIES. 


2G1 


dead  men's  shoes  or  fancies,  he  lay  not  up.  At 
Walden  he  flung  out  of  the  window  his  only  orna 
ment, —  a  paper  weight,  —  because  it  needed  dust 
ing.  At  a  city  eating-house  his  usual  order  was 
"  boiled  apple"  (a  manual  of  alum  with  shortening), 
seduced  by  its  title.  He  could  spoil  an  hour  and 
the  shopman's  patience  in  his  search  after  a  knife, 
never  buying  till  he  got  the  short,  stout  blade  with 
the  like  handle.  He  tied  his  shoes  in  a  hard  lover's- 
kiiot,  and  was  intensely  nice  in  his  personal,  — 

"Life  without  thee  is  loose  and  spills." 

He  faintly  piqued  his  curiosity  with  pithy  bon- 
mots,  such  as :  "  Cows  in  the  pasture  are  good 
milkers.  You  cannot  travel  four  roads  at  one 
time.  If  you  wish  the  meat,  crack  the  nut.  If  it 
does  not  happen  soon,  it  will  late.  Take  time  as  it 
comes,  people  for  what  they  are  worth,  and  money 
for  what  it  buys.  As  the  bill,  so  goes  the  song  ;  as 
the  bird,  such  the  nest.  Time  runs  before  men. 
A  good  dog  never  finds  good  bones.  Cherries 
taste  sour  to  single  birds.  No  black  milk,  no  white 
crows.  Foul  weather  and  false  women  are  always 
expected.  Occasion  wears  front-hair.  No  fish  nor 
salt  when  a  fool  holds  the  line.  A  poor  man's 
cow  —  a  rich  man's  child  —  dies.  Sleep  is  half  a  j 
dinner.  A  wit  sleeps  in  the  middle  of  a  narrow 
bed.  Good  heart,  weak  head.  Cocks  crow  as  for- 


262  THOEEAU. 

tune  brightens.  A  fool  is  always  starting.  At  a 
small  spring  you  can  drink  at  your  ease.  Fire 
is  like  an  old  maid  the  best  company.  Long  talk 
and  little  time.  Better  days,  a  bankrupt's  pur 
chase.  What  men  do,  not  what  they  promise." 

"  The  poor  man's  childe  invited  was  to  dine, 
With  flesh  of  oxen,  sheep,  and  fatted  swine, 
(Far  better  cheer  than  he  at  home  could  finde,) 
And  yet  this  childe  to  stay  had  little  minde. 
You  have,  quoth  he,  no  apple,  froise,  nor  pie, 
Stew'd  pears,  with  bread  and  milk  and  walnuts  by." 


FIELD   SPORTS.  263 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

FIELD   SPORTS. 

11  At  length  I  hailed  him,  seeing  that  his  hat 
"Was  moist  with  water-drops,  as  if  the  brim 
Had  newly  scooped  a  running  stream."  —  WORDSWORTH. 

"I,  to  my  soft  still  walk." — DONNE. 

"  Scire  est  nescire,  nisi  id  me  scire  alius  scierit." — LUCILIUS. 
"Unus  homo,  nullus  homo."— THEMISTIUS. 

"  What  heauty  would  have  lovely  styled ; 
What  manners  pretty,  nature  mild, 
What  wonder  perfect,  all  were  fil'd 
Upon  record  in  this  blest  child."  —BEN  JONSON. 

A  S  an  honorary  member,  Thoreau  appertained 
to  the  Boston  Society  of  Natural  History, 
adding  to  its  reports,  besides  comparing  notes  with 
the  care-takers  or  curators  of  the  mise  en  scene. 
To  this  body  he  left  his  collections  of  plants,  Indian 
tools,  and  the  like.  His  latest  traffic  with  it  refers 
to  the  number  of  bars  or  fins  upon  a  pike,  which 
had  more  or  less  than  was  decent.  He  sat  upon 
his  eggs  with  theirs.  His  city  visit  was  to  their 
books,  and  there  he  made  his  call,  not  upon  the 
swift  ladies  of  Spruce  Street ;  and  more  than  once 
he  entered  by  the  window  before  the  janitor  had 
digested  his  omelet, — 


264  THOREAU. 

"  How  kind  is  Heaven  to  men  ! " 

When  he  found  a  wonder,  he  sent  it,  as  in  the  case 
of  the  ne  plus  ultra  balls  from  Flint's  Pond,  in 
Lincoln,  made  of  grass,  reeds,  and  leaves,  triturated 
by  washing  upon  the  sandy  beach,  and  rolled  into 
polished  reddish  globes,  about  the  bigness  of  an 
orange.  A  new  species  of  mouse,  three  Blanding 
cistudas,  and  several  box-turtles  (rare  here)  were 
among  his  prizes.  Of  the  Cistuda  Blandingii,  the 
herpetologist  Holbrook  says  that  its  sole  locality 
is  the  Illinois  and  Wisconsin  prairies,  and  the  one 
he  saw  came  from  the  Fox  River. 

"  Striving  to  save  the  whole,  by  parcells  die." 

On  the  Andromeda  Ponds,  between  Walden  and 
Fairhaven,  he  found  the  red  snow ;  for  things 
tropic  or  polar  can  be  found  if  looked  for.  "  There 
is  no  power  to  see  in  the  eye  itself,  any  more  than 
in  any  other  jelly :  we  cannot  see  any  thing  till  we 
are  possessed  with  the  idea  of  it.  The  sportsman 
had  the  meadow-hens  half-way  into  his  bag  when 
he  started,  and  has  only  to  shove  them  down. 
First,  the  idea  or  image  of  a  plant  occupies  my 
thoughts,  and  at  length  I  surely  see  it,  though  it 
may  seem  as  foreign  to  this  locality  as  Hudson's  Bay 
is."  Thus  he  clutched  the  Labrador  Ledum  and 
Kalmia  glauca.  His  docility  was  great,  and  as  the 
newest  botanies  changed  the  name  of  Andromeda 


FIELD   SPORTS.  265 

to  Cassandra,  he  accepted  it,  and  became  an  accom 
plice  to  this  tragic  deed.  Macbeth  and  Catiline 
are  spared  for  the  roses.  His  annual  interest  was 
paid,  his  banks  did  not  fail ;  the  lampreys'  nests  on 
the  river  yet  surviving,  built  of  small  stones  and 
sometimes  two  feet  high.  It  is  of  this  petromyzon 
our  fishermen  have  the  funereal  idea,  as  they  are 
never  seen  coming  back  after  going  up  stream, 
that  they  all  die.  The  dead  suckers  seen  floating 
in  the  river  each  spring  inspired  his  muse.  He 
admired  the  otters'  tracks,  the  remains  of  their 
scaly  dinners,  and  the  places  on  the  river  where 
they  amused  themselves  sliding  like  boys.  He  had 
chased  and  caught  woodchucks,  but  failed  in  this 
experiment  on  a  fox  ;  and  caught,  instead  of  him,  a 
bronchial  cold  that  did  him  great  harm.  He  was 
in  the  habit  of  examining  the  squirrels'  nests  in 
the  trees :  the  gray  makes  his  of  leaves ;  the  red, 
of  grass  and  fibres  of  bark.  He  has  climbed  suc 
cessively  four  pines  after  hawks'  nests,  and  was 
much  stuck  up ;  and  once  he  gathered  the  brilliant 
flowers  of  the  white-pine  from  the  very  tops  of  the 
tallest  pines,  when  he  was  pitched  on  the  highest 
scale.  By  such  imprudent  exertion,  being  strained, 
an/1  that  of  wheeling  heavy  loads  of  driftwood,  it 
was  feared  he  impaired  his  health,  always  doing 
ideal  work.  Fishes'  nests  and  spawn  —  more 
especially  of  the  horn-pout  and  bream  —  were  often 

12 


266  j  THOREAU. 

studied ;  and  he  carried  to  the  entomologist  Harris 
the  first  lively  snow-flea  he  enjoyed. 

"  In  earth's  wide  thoroughfare  below, 
Two  only  men  contented  go,  — 
Who  knows  what 's  right  and  what 's  forbid, 
And  he  from  whom  is  knowledge  hid." 

Turtles  were  his  pride  and  consolation.  He  has 
piloted  a  snapping-turtle,  Emysaurus  serpentina,  to 
his  house  from  the  river,  that  could  easily  carry 
him  on  his  back;  and  would  sometimes  hatch  a 
brood  of  these  Herculean  monsters  in  his  yard. 
They  waited  for  information,  or  listened  to  their 
instinct,  before  setting  off  for  the  water.  "  If 
Iliads  are  not  composed  in  our  day,  snapping- turtles 
are  hatched  and  arrive  at  maturity.  It  already 
thrusts  forth  its  tremendous  head  for  the  first  time 
in  this  sphere,  and  slowly  moves  from  side  to  side, 
opening  its  small  glistening  eyes  for  the  first  time 
to  the  light,  expressive  of  dull  rage  as  if  it  had 
endured  the  trials  of  this  world  for  a  century. 
They  not  only  live  after  they  are  dead,  but  begin 
to  live  before  they  are  alive.  When  I  behold  this 
monster  thus  steadily  advancing  to  maturity,  all 
nature  abetting,  I  am  convinced  that  there  must 
be  an  irresistible  necessity  for  mud- turtles.  With 
what  unshaking  tenacity  Nature  sticks  to  one  idea. 
These  eggs,  not  warm  to  the  touch,  buried  in  the 
ground,  so  slow  to  hatch,  are  like  the  seeds  of 


FIELD   SPORTS.  267 

vegetable  life.  I  am  affected  by  the  thought  that 
the  earth  nurses  these  eggs.  They  are  planted  in 
the  earth,  and  the  earth  takes  care  of  them ;  she  is 
genial  to  them,  and  does  not  kill  them.  This 
mother  is  not  merely  inanimate  and  inorganic. 
Though  the  immediate  mother-turtle  abandons  her 
offspring,  the  earth  and  sun  are  kind  to  them.  The 
old  turtle,  on  which  the  earth  rests,  takes  care  of 
them,  while  the  other  waddles  off.  Earth  was  not 
made  poisonous  and  deadly  to  them.  The  earth 
has  some  virtue  in  it :  when  seeds  are  put  into  it, 
they  germinate  ;  when  turtles'  eggs,  they  hatch  in 
due  time.  Though  the  mother-turtle  remained  and 
boarded  them,  it  would  still  be  the  universal  World- 
turtle  which  through  her  cared  for  them  as  now. 
Thus  the  earth  is  the  maker  of  all  creatures. 
Talk  of  Hercules,  —  his  feats  in  the  cradle !  what 
kind  of  nursery  has  this  one  had  ?  " 

"  Life  lock't  in  death,  heav'n  in  a  shell." 

, 

The  wood-tortoise,  Emys  insculpta,  was  another  ^ 
annual  favorite.  It  is  heard  in  early  spring,  after 
the  mud  from  the  freshets  has  dried  on  the  fallen 
leaves  in  swamps  that  border  the  stream,  slowly 
rustling  the  leaves  in  its  cautious  advances,  and 
then  mysteriously  tumbling  down  the  steep  bank 
into  the  river,  —  a  slightly  startling  operation.  He 
patiently  speculates  upon  its  shingled,  pectinately 


268  THOEEAU. 

engraved  roof  or  back,  and  its  perennial  secrets 
in  that  indelible  hierogram.  The  mud-turtle,  he 
thought,  only  gained  its  peculiar  odors  after  spring 
had  come,  like  other  flowers ;  and  alludes  to  the 
high-backed,  elliptical  shell  of  the  stink-pot  cov 
ered  with  leeches.  Of  the  trim  painted  tortoise  he 
asks :  "  He  who  painted  the  tortoise  thus,  what 
were  his  designs?  The  gold-bead  turtle  glides 
anxiously  amid  the  spreading  calla-leaves  near  the 
warm  depths  of  the  black  broo'k.  I  have  seen 
signs  of  spring  :  I  have  seen  a  frog  swiftly  sinking 
in  a  pool,  or  where  he  dimpled  the  surface  as  he 
leapt  in  ;  I  have  seen  the  brilliant  spots  of  the  tor 
toises  stirring  at  the  bottom  of  ditches ;  I  have 
seen  the  clear  sap  trickling  from  the  red  maple. 
The  first  pleasant  days  of  spring  come  out  like  a 
squirrel,  and  go  in  again.  I  do  not  know  at  first 
what  charms  me." 

THE    COMING   OF    SPRING. 

With  the  red  leaves  its  floor  was  carpeted,  — 
Floor  of  that  Forest-brook  across  whose  weeds 
A  trembling  tree  was  thrown,  —  those  leaves  so  red 
Shed  from  the  grassy  bank  when  Autumn  bleeds 
In  all  the  maples;  here  the  Spring  first  feeds 
Her  pulsing  heart  with  the  specked  turtle's  gold, 
Half-seen  emerging  from  the  last  year's  reeds,  — 
Spring  that  is  joyous  and  grows  never  old, 
Soft  in  aerial  hope,  sweet  yet  controlled. 


FIELD  SPORTS.  269 

Gently  the  blue-bird  warbled  his  sad  song, 
Shrill  came  the  robin's  whistle  from  the  hill, 
The  sparrows  twittering  all  the  hedge  along, 
While  darting  trout  clouded  the  reed-born  rill, 
And  generous  elm-trees  budded  o'er  the  mill, 
Weaving  a  flower- wreath  on  the  fragrant  air; 
And  the  soft-moving  skies  seemed  never  still, 
And  all  was  calm  with  peace  and  void  from  care, 
Both  heaven  and  earth,  and  life  and  all  things  there. 

The  early  willows  launched  their  catkins  forth 
To  catch  the  first  kind  glances  of  the  sun, 
Their  larger  brethren  smiled  with  golden  mirth, 
And  alder  tassels  dropt,  and  birches  spun 
Their  glittering  rings,  and  maple  buds  begun 
To  cloud  again  their  rubies  down  the  glen, 
And  diving  ducks  shook  sparkling  in  the  run, 
While  in  the  old  year's  leaves  the  tiny  wren 
Peeped  at  the  tiny  titmouse,  come  to  life  again. 

Frogs  held  his  contrite  admiration.  "  The  same 
starry  geometry  looks  down  on  their  active  and 
their  torpid  state."  The  little  peeping  hyla  winds 
his  shrill,  mellow,  miniature  flageolet  in  the  warm 
overflowed  pools,  and  suggests  to  him  this  stupen 
dous  image  :  "  It  was  like  the  light  reflected  from 
the  mountain  ridges,  within  the  shaded  portion  of  the 
moon,  forerunner  and  herald  of  the  spring."  He 
made  a  regular  business  of  studying  frogs,  —  waded 
for  them  with  freezing  calves  in  the  early  freshet, 
caught  them,  and  carried  them  home  to  hear  their 


270  THOEEAU. 

sage  songs.  "I  paddle  up  the  river  to  see  the 
moonlight  and  hear  the  bull-frog."  He  loved  to 
be  present  at  the  instant  when  the  springing  grass 
at  the  bottoms  of  ditches  lifts  its  spear  above  the 
surface  and  bathes  in  the  spring  air.  "  The  grass- 
green  tufts  at  the  spring  were  like  a  green  fire. 
Then  the  willow-catkins  looked  like  small  pearl 
buttons  on  a  waistcoat.  Then  the  bluebird  is 
like  a  speck  of  clear  blue  sky  seen  near  the  end  of 
a  storm,  reminding  us  of  an  ethereal  region  and  a 
heaven  which  we  had  forgotten.  With  his  warble 
he  drills  the  ice,  and  his  little  rill  of  melody  flows 
a  short  way  down  the .  concave  of  the  sky.  The 
sharp  whistle  of  the  blackbird,  too,  is  heard,  like 
single  sparks,  or  a  shower  of  them,  shot  up  from 
the  swamp,  and  seen  against  the  dark  winter  in  the 
rear.  Here,  again,  in  the  flight  of  the  goldfinch, 
in  its  ricochet  motion,  is  that  undulation  observed 
in  so  many  materials,  as  in  the  mackerel-sky." 
He  doubts  if  the  season  will  be  long  enough  for 
such  oriental  and  luxurious  slowness  as  the  croak 
ing  of  the  first  wood-frog.  Ah,  how  weatherwise 
he  must  be !  Now  he  loses  sight  completely  of 
those  November  days,  in  which  you  must  hold 
on  to  life  by  your  teeth.  About  May  22d,  he 
hears  the  willowy  music  of  frogs,  and  notices 
the  pads  on  the  river,  with  often  a  scolloped  edge 
like  those  tin  platters  on  which  country  people 


FIELD   SPORTS.  271 

sometimes  bake  turnovers.  The  earth  is  all  fra 
grant  as  one  flower,  and  life  perfectly  fresh  and 
uncankered.  He  says  of  the  wood-frog,  Rana  syl- 
vatica:  "It  had  four  or  five  dusky  bars,  which 
matched  exactly  when  the  legs  were  folded,  show 
ing  that  the  painter  applied  his  brush  to  the 
animal  when  in  that  position."  The  leopard-frog, 
the  marsh-frog,  the  bull-frog,  and  that  best  of  all 
earthly  singers,  the  toad,  he  never  could  do  enough 
for.  It  was,  he  says,  a  great  discovery,  when  first 
he  found  the  ineffable  trilling  concerto  of  early 
summer  after  sunset  was  arranged  by  the  toads,  — 
when  the  very  earth  seems  to  steam  with  the 
sound.  He  makes  up  his  mind  reluctantly,  as  if 
somebody  had  blundered  about  that  time.  "It 
would  seem  then  that  snakes  undertake  to  swallow  ^ 
toads  that  are  too  big  for  them.  I  saw  a  snake  by 
the  roadside,  and  touched  him  with  my  foot  to  see 
if  he  were  dead.  He  had  a  toad  in  his  jaws  which 
he  was  preparing  to  swallow,  with  the  latter  dis 
tended  to  three  times  his  width  ;  but  he  relin 
quished  his  prey,  and  fled.  And  I  thought,  as  the 
toad  jumped  leisurely  away,  with  his  slime-covered 
hind-quarters  glistening  in  the  sun  (as  if  I,  his 
deliverer,  wished  to  interrupt  his  meditations),  with 
out  a  shriek  or  fainting,  —  I  thought,  '  What  a 
healthy  indifference  is  manifested  ! '  4  Is  not  this 
the  broad  earth  still?'  he  said."  He  thinks  the 


272  TEOEEAU.  % 

yellow,  swelling  throat  of  the  bull-frog  comes 
with  the  water-lilies.  It  is  of  this  faultless  singer 
the  good  young  English  lord  courteously  asked,  on 
hearing  it  warble  in  .the  marsh  one  day,  "  What 
Birds  are  those  ?  " 

"Dear,  harmless  age  !  the  short,  swift  span, 
When  weeping  virtue  parts  with  man." 

In  his  view,  the  squirrel  has  the  key  to  the 
pitch-pine  cone,  that  conical  and  spiry  nest  of 
many  apartments;  and  he  is  so  pleased  with  the 
flat  top  of  the  muskrat's  head  in  swimming,  and 
his  back  even  with  it,  and  the  ludicrous  way  he 
shows  his  curved  tail  when  he  dives,  that  he  can 
not  fail  to  draw  them  on  the  page.  Many  an  hour 
he  spent  in  watching  the  evolutions  of  the  min 
nows  and  the  turtle  laying  its  eggs,  running  his 
own  patience  against  that  of  the  shell,  and  at  last 
concludes  the  stink-pot  laid  its  eggs  in  the  dark, 
having  watched  it  as  long  as  he  could  see  without 
their  appearance.  "  As  soon  as  these  reptile  eggs 
are  laid,  the  skunk  comes  and  gobbles  up  the  nest." 
Such  is  a  provision  of  Nature,  who  keeps  that  uni 
versal  eating-house  where  guest,  table,  and  keeper 
are  on  the  bill. 

His  near  relation  to  flowers,  their  importance  in 
his  landscape  and  his  sensibility  to  their  colors, 
have  been  joyfully  reiterated.  He  criticised  his 
floral  children :  "  Nature  made  ferns  for  pure 


FIELD   SPORTS.  273 

leaves  to  show  what  she  could  do  in  that  line.  The 
oaks  are  in  the  gray,  or  a  little  more ;  and  the  de 
ciduous  trees  invest  the  woods  like  a  permanent 
mist.  What  a  glorious  crimson  fire  as  you  look  up 
to  the  sunlight  through  the  thin  edge  of  the  scales 
of  the  black  spruce  !  the  cones  so  intensely  glow 
ing  in  their  cool  green  buds,  while  the  purplish 
sterile  blossoms  shed  pollen  upon  you.  ...  It 
seemed  like  a  fairy  fruit  as  I  sat  looking  towards 
the  sun,  and  saw  the  red  maple-keys,  made  all 
transparent  and  glowing  by  the  sun,  between  me 
and  the  body  of  the  squirrel."  The  excessively 
minute  thread-like  stigmas  of  the  hazel  seen  against 
the  light  pleased  him  with  their  ruby  glow,  and 
were  almost  as  brilliant  as  the  jewels  of  an  ice- 
glaze.  It  is  like  a  crimson  star  first  detected  in  the 
twilight.  These  facts  and  similar  ones,  observed 
afresh  each  year,  verify  his  criticism,  that  he  ob 
serves  with  the  risk  of  endless  iteration,  he  milks 
the  sky  and  the  earth.  He  alludes  to  a  bay- 
berry  bush  without  fruit,  probably  a  male  one,  —  "  it 
made  me  realize  that  this  was  only  a  more  distant 
and  elevated  sea-beach,  and  that  we  were  within  the 
reach  of  marine  influences,"  —  and  he  sees  "  banks 
sugared  with  the  aster  Tradescanti.  I  am  detained 
by  the  very  bright  red  blackberry-leaves  strewn 
along  the  sod,  the  vine  being  inconspicuous,  — how 
they  spot  it !  I  can  see  the  anthers  plainly  on  the 

12*  R 


274 


THOREAU. 


great,  rusty,  fusty  globular  buds  of  the  slippery 
elm.  The  leaves  in  July  are  the  dark  eyelash  of 
summer  ;  in  May  the  houstonias  are  like  a  sugaring 
of  snow.  These  little  timid  wayfaring  flowers  were 
dried  and  eaten  by  the  Indians, —  a  delicate  meal,  — 

Speechless  and  calm  as  infant's  sleep. 

"  The  most  interesting  domes  I  behold  are  not 
those  of  oriental  temples  and  palaces,  but  of  the 
toadstools.  On  this  knoll  in  the  swamp  they  are 
little  pyramids  of  Cheops  or  Cholula,  which  also 
stand  on  the  plain,  very  delicately  shaded  off. 
They  have  burst  their  brown  tunics  as  they  ex 
panded,  leaving  only  a  clear  brown  apex,  and  on 
every  side  these  swelling  roofs  or  domes  are  patched 
and  shingled  with  the  fragments,  delicately  shaded 
off  thus  into  every  tint  of  brown  to  the  edge,  as  if 
this  creation  of  a  night  would  thus  emulate  the 
weather-stains  of  centuries  ;  toads'  temples,  —  so 
charming  is  gradation.  I  hear  the  steady  (not 
intermittent)  shrilling  of  apparently  the  alder- 
cricket, —  hear  it!  but  see  it  not,  clear  and  au 
tumnal,  a  season  round.  It  reminds  me  of  past 
autumns  and  the  lapse  of  time,  suggests  a  pleasing, 
thoughtful  melancholy,  like  the  sound  of  the  flail. 
Such  preparations,  such  an  outfit  has  our  life,  and 
so  little  brought  to  pass.  Having  found  the  Calla 
palustris  in  one  place,  I  soon  found  it  in  another." 


FIELD   SPORTS.  275 

He  notes  the  dark-blue  domes  of  the  soap-wort 
gentian.  "  The  beech-trunks  impress  you  as  full  of 
health  and  vigor,  so  that  the  bark  can  hardly  con 
tain  their  spirits,  but  lies  in  folds  or  wrinkles  about 
their  ankles  like  a  sock,  with  the  embonpoint  of 
infancy,  —  a  wrinkle  of  fat.  The  fever-bush  is 
betrayed  by  its  little  spherical  buds,  in  January. 
Yellow  is  the  color  of  spring  ;  red,  that  of  mid 
summer:  through  pale  golden  and  green  we 
arrive  at  the  yellow  of  the  buttercup ;  through 
scarlet  to  the  fiery  July  red,  the  red  lily."  He  finds 
treasures  in  the  golden  basins  of  the  cistus.  The 
water-target  leaves  in  mid-June  at  Walden  are 
scored  as  by  some  literal  characters.  Some  dewy 
cobwebs  arrange  themselves  before  his  happy  eyes, 
like  little  napkins  of  the  fairies  spread  on  the  grass. 
The  scent  of  the  partridge-berry  is  between  that 
of  the  rum-cherry  and  the  Mayflower,  or  like 
peach-stone  meats. 

"  How  hard  a  man  must  work  in  order  to  acquire  \y 
his  language,  —  words  by  which  to  express  himself. 
I  have  known  a  particular  rush  by  sight  for  the 
past  twenty  years,  but  have  been  prevented  from 
describing  some  of  its  peculiarities,  because  I  did 
not  know  its  name.  With  the  knowledge  of  the 
name  comes  a  distincter  knowledge  of  the  thing. 
That  shore  is  now  describable,  and  poetic  even. 
My  knowledge  was  cramped  and  confused  before, 


276  THOREAU. 

and  grew  rusty  because  not  used  :  it  becomes  com 
municable,  and  grows  by  communication.  I  can 
^  now  learn  what  others  know  about  the  same  thing. 
In  earliest  spring  you  may  explore,  —  go  looking 
for  radical  leaves.  What  a  dim  and  shadowy  ex 
istence  have  now  to  our  memories  the  fair  flowers 
whose  localities  they  mark  !  How  hard  to  find  any 
trace  of  the  stem  now  after  it  has  been  flatted 
under  the  snow  of  the  winter  !  I  go  feeling  with 
wet  and  freezing  fingers  amid  the  withered  grass 
and  the  snow  for  their  prostrate  stems,  that  I  may 
reconstruct  the  plant :  — 

'  Who  hath  the  upright  heart,  the  single  eye, 
The  clean,  pure  hand  1 ' 

It  as'  sweet  a  mystery  to  me  as  ever  what  this 
world  is.  The  hickories  putting  out  young,  fresh, 
yellowish  leaves,  and  the  oaks  light-grayish  ones, 
while  the  oven-bird  thrums  his  sawyer-like  strains, 
and  the  chewink  rustles  through  the  dry  leaves,  or 
repeats  his  jingle  on  a  tree-top,  and  the  wood- 
thrush,  the  genius  of  the  wood,  whistles  for  the 
first  time  his  clear  and  thrilling  strain.  It  sounds 
as  it  did  the  first  time  I  heard  it.  I  see  the' strong- 
colored  pine,  the  grass  of  trees,  in  the  midst  of 
which  other  trees  are  but  as  \veeds  or  flowers,  a  lit 
tle  exotic.  The  variously  colored  blossoms  of  the 
shrub-oaks,  now  in  May  hanging  gracefully  like 


\ ~ 


FIELD   SPORTS.  279 

streams,  then  is  the  summer  begun.  I  saw  how 
he  fed  his  fish,  they  swimming  in  the  dark  nether 
atmosphere  of  the  river  rose  easily  to  swallow 
such  swimmers  (June-bugs)  of  the  light  upper  at 
mosphere,  and  sank  to  its  bottom."  He  notices  the 
Datura  stramonium  (thorn-apple)  as  he  is  crossing 
the  beach  of  Hull,  and  felt  as  if  he  was  on  the 
highway  of  the  world  at  the  sight  of  this  veteran 
and  cosmopolite  traveller.  Nature  in  July  seems 
like  a  hen  with  open  mouth  panting  in  the  grass. 
He  hears  then,  as  it  were,  the  mellow  sounds  of 
distant  horns  in  the  hollow  mansions  of  the  upper 
air,  and  he  thinks  more  than  the  road-full.  "  While 
I  am  abroad  the  ovipositors  plant  their  seeds  in 
me  ;  I  am  fly-blown  with  thoughts,  and  go  home  to 
hatch  and  brood  over  them.  It  is  now  the  royal 
month  of  August.  When  I  hear  the  sound  of  the 
cricket,  I  am  as  dry  as  the  rye  which  is  everywhere 
cut  and  housed,  though  I  am  drunk  with  the  sea 
son's  pain.  The  swallow  goes  over  with  a  watery 
twittering.  The  farmer  has  driven  in  his  cows,  and 
is  cutting  an  armful  of  green  corn-fodder  for  them. 
The  loads  of  meadow-hay  pass,  which  the  oxen 
draw  indifferently.  The  creak  of  the  cricket  and 
the  sight  of  the  prunella  and  the  autumnal  dande 
lion  say :  '  Work  while  it  is  day,  for  the  night 
cometh  in  which  no  man  can  work.' ' 

"  Both  the  common  largest  and  the  smallest  hy- 


280  THOREAU. 

pericums  and  the  pin-weeds  were  very  rich  browns 
at  a  little  distance  (in  the  middle  of  March),  col 
oring  whole  fields,  and  also  withered  and  falling 
ferns  reeking  wet.  It  was  a  prospect  to  excite  a 
reindeer :  these  tints  of  brown  were  as  softly  and 
richly  fair  and  sufficing  as  the  most  brilliant  au 
tumnal  tints.  There  are  now  respectable  billows 
on  our  vernal  seas ;  the  water  is  very  high,  and 
smooth  as  ever  it  is.  It  is  very  warm  ;  I  wear  but 
one  coat.  On  the  water,  the  town  and  the  land  it 
is  built  on  seems  to  rise  but  little  above  the  flood. 
I  realize  how  water  predominates  on  the  surface  of 
the  globe ;  I  am  surprised  to  see  new  and  unex 
pected  water-lines  drawn  by  the  level  edge  of  the 
flood  about  knolls  in  the  meadows  and  in  the 
woods,  —  waving  lines  which  mark  the  boundary 
of  a  possible  or  probable  freshet  any  spring.  In 
September  we  see  the  ferns  after  the  frost,  like  so 
many  brown  fires  they  light  up  the  meadows.  In 
March,  when  the -browns  culminated,  the  sun  being 
concealed,  I  was  drawn  toward  and  worshipped 
the  brownish  light  in  the  sod  and  the  withered 
grass  on  barren  hills ;  I  felt  as  if  I  could  eat  the 
very  crust  of  the  earth,  —  I  never  felt  so  terrene, 
never  sympathized  so  with  the  surface  of  the  earth. 
At  the  same  date  comes  the  arrow-head  crop,  hu 
manity  patent  to  my  eyes  as  soon  as  the  snow  goes 
•off.  Not  hidden  away  in  some  crypt  or  grave,  or 


FIELD  SPORTS.  281 

under  a  pyramid,  no  disgusting  mummery,  but  a 
clean  stone  ;  the  best  symbol  that  could  have  been, 
transmitted  to  me,  the  Red  Man,  his  mark.  They 
are  not  fossil  bones,  but,  as  it  were,  fossil  thoughts. 
When  I  see  these  signs,  I  know  that  the  maker  is 
not  far  off,  into  whatever  form  transmuted.  This 
arrow  -  headed  character  promises  to  outlast  all 
others.  Myriads  of  arrow-points  lie  sleeping  in  the 
skin  of  the  revolving  earth  while  meteors  revolve 
in  space.  The  footprint,  the  mind-print  of  the 
oldest  men,  for  they  have  camped  on  the  plains  of 
Mesopotamia  and  Marathon  too.  I  heard  lately 
the  voice  of  a  hound  hunting  by  itself.  What  an 
awful  sound  to  the  denizens  of  the  wood,  that  re 
lentless,  voracious,  demonic  cry,  like  the  voice  of 
a  fiend !  at  the  hearing  of  which  the  fox,  hare,  and 
marmot  tremble  for  their  young  and  themselves, 
imagining  the  worst.  This,  however,  is  the  sound 
which  the  lords  of  creation  love,  and  accompany 
with  their  bugles  and  mellow  horns,  conveying  a 
singular  dread  to  the  hearer,  instead  of  whispering 
peace  to  the  hare's  palpitating  breast." 

"  And  their  sun  does  never  shine, 

And  their  fields  are  bleak  and  bare, 
And  their  ways  are  filled  with  thorns  : 
It  is  eternal  winter  there.'*1 

"  As  the  pine-tree  bends  and  waves  like  a  feather 
in  the  gale,  I  see  it  alternately  dark  and  light,  as 


282  THOREAU. 

the  sides  of  the  needles  which  reflect  the  cool  sheen 
are  alternately  withdrawn  from  and  restored  to  the 
proper  angle.  I  feel  something  like  the  young 
Astyanax  at  the  sight  of  his  father's  flashing  crest. 
A  peculiarity  of  these  days  (the  last  week  of  May) 
is  the  first  hearing  the  cricket's  creak,  suggesting 
philosophy  and  thought.  No  greater  event  trans 
pires  now.  It  is  the  most  interesting  piece  of 
news  to  be  communicated,  yet  it  is  not  in  any 
newspaper.  I  went  by  Temple's,  —  for  rural  inter 
est  give  me  the  houses  of  the  poor.  The  creak  of 
the  mole  cricket  has  a  very  afternoon  sound.  The 
heron  uses  these  shallows  on  the  river,  as  I  can 
not,  —  I  give  them  up  to  him.  I  saw  a  gold-finch 
eating  the  seeds  of  the  coarse  barnyard  grass, 
perched  on  it :  it  then  goes  off  with  a  cool  twitter. 
No  tarts  that  I  ever  tasted  at  any  table  possessed 
such  a  refreshing,  cheering,  encouraging  acid  that 
literally  put  the  heart  in  you  and  an  edge  for  this 
world's  experiences,  bracing  the  spirit,  as  the  cran 
berries  I  have  plucked  in  the  meadows  in  the 
spring.  They  cut  the  winter's  phlegm,  and  now  I 
can  swallow  another  year  of  this  world  without 
other  sauce.  These  are  the  warm,  west-wind, 
dream-toad,  leafing-out,  willowy,  haze  days  (May 
9).  No  instrumental  music  should  be  heard  in  the 
streets  more  youthful  and  innocent  than  willow 
whistles.  Children  are  digging  dandelions  by  the 


FIELD  SPORTS.  283 

roadside  with  a  pan  and  a  case  knife.       This  re 
calls  that  paradisiacal  condition, — 


COUNTRY-LIVING. 

Our  reputation  is  not  great, 
Come !   we  can  omit  the  date  ; 
And  the  sermon,  —  truce  to  it ; 
Of  the  judge  buy  not  a  writ, 
But  collect  the  grains  of  wit, 
And  sound  knowledge  sure  to  hit. 
Living  in  the  country  then, 
Half  remote  from  towns  and  men, 
With  a  modest  income,  not 
More  than  amputates  the  scot ; 
Lacking  vestures  rich  and  rare, 
Those  we  have  the  worse  for  wear, 
Economic  of  the  hat, 
And  in  fulness  like  the  rat, 
Let  us  just  conclude  we  are, 
Monarchs  of  a  rolling  star ! 
Fortune  is  to  live  on  little, 
Happily  the  chip  to  whittle, 
He  who  can  consume  his  ill, 
Daintily  his  platters  fill. 
What 's  the  good  of  hoarding  gold  ? 
Virtue  is  not  bought  and  sold. 
He  who  has  his  peace  of  mind 
Fears  no  tempest,  seas,  nor  wind : 
He  may  let  the  world  boil  on, 
Dumpling  that  is  quickly  done, 
And  can  drain  his  cup  so  pleasing, 


284  THOREAU. 

Not  the  ear  of  Saturn  teasing ; 
Thus  defended  in  his  state, 
Pass  its  laws  without  debate, 
And  not  wasting  friends  or  fortune, 
Yet  no  distant  stars  importune. 

He  thus  describes  the  last  moments  of  an 
unfortunate  minister :  "  Then  this  musky  lagune 
had  put  forth  in  the  erection  of  his  ventral  fins, 
expanding  suddenly  under  the  influence  of  a  more 
than  vernal  heat,  and  his  tender  white  belly 
where  he  kept  no  sight,  and  the  minister  squeaked 
his  last !  Oh,  what  an  eye  was  there,  my  country 
men, —  buried  in  mud  up  to  the  lids,  meditating 
on  what  ?  Sleepless  at  the  bottom  of  the  pool,  at 
the  top  of  the  bottom,  directed  heavenward,  in  no 
danger  from  motes  I  Pouts  expect  not  snapping- 
turtles  from  below.  Suddenly  a  mud  volcano 
swallowed  him  up, — seized  his  midriff.  He  fell 
into  those  relentless  jaws  which  relax  not  even  in 
death.  ...  I  saw  the  cat  studying  ornithology 
between  the  corn-rows.  She  is  full  of  sparrows, 
and  wants  no  more  breakfast  this  morning,  unless  it 
be  a  saucer  of  milk,  —  the  dear  beast !  No  tree  has 
so  fair  a  bole  and  so  handsome  an  instep  as  the  beech. 
The  botanists  have  a  phrase,  mantissa,  an  additional 
matter  about  something,  that  is  convenient."  He 
uses  "  crichicroches,  zigzagging,  brattling,  tus- 
sucky,  trembles,  flavid,  z-ing;"  and  says  of  a 


FIELD  SPOETS.  285 

farmer,  that  he  keeps  twenty-eight  cows,  which  are 
milked  at  four  and  a  half  o'clock,  A.M. ;  but  he  gives 
his  hired  men  none  of  the  milk  with  their  coffee. 
"  Frogs  still  sound  round  Callitriche  Pool,  where 
the  tin  is  cast ;  no  doubt  the  Romans  and  Ninevites 
had  such  places :  to  what  a  perfect  system  this 
world  is  reduced !  I  see  some  of  those  little  cells, 
perhaps  of  a  wasp  or  bee,  made  of  clay :  it  suggests 
that  these  insects  were  the  first  potters.  They 
look  somewhat  like  small  stone  jugs.  Evergreens 
would  be  a  good  title  for  my  things,  or  Gill-go- 
over-the-ground,  or  Winter  Green,  or  Checkerberry, 
or  Usnea  lichens.  Methinks  the  scent  is  a  more 
oracular  and  trustworthy  inquisition  than  the 
eye.  When  I  criticise  my  own  writing,  I  go 
to  the  scent,  as  it  were.  It  reveals,  of  course, 
what  is  concealed  from  the  other  senses;  by  it, 
I  detect  earthiness.  How  did  these  beautiful  rain 
bow  tints  get  into  the  shell  of  the  fresh-water 
clam,  buried  in  the  mud  at  the  bottom  of  our  dark 
river  ? 

"  When  my  eyes  first  rested  on  Walden,  the 
striped  bream  rested  on  it  though  I  did  not  see  it, 
and  when  Tahatawan  paddled  his  canoe  there. 
How  wild  it  makes  the  pond  and  the  township  to 
find  a  new  fish  in  it !  America  renews  her  youth 
here.  The  bream  appreciated  floats  in  the  pond  as 
the  centre  of  the  system,  a  new  image  of  God. 


286  THOEEAU. 

Its  life  no  man  can  explain  more  than  he  can  his 
own.  I  want  you  to  perceive  the  mystery  of  the 
bream :  I  have  a  contemporary  in  Walden.  How 
was  it  when  the  youth  first  discovered  fishes?  was 
it  the  number  of  the  fin-ra}^  or  their  arrangement  ? 
No  !  b*ut  the  faint  recognition  of  a  living  and  new 
acquaintance,  a  friend  among  the  fishes,  a  provok 
ing  mystery.  I  see  some  feathers  of  a  blue  jay 
scattered  along  a  wood-path,  and  at  length  come 
to  the  body  of  the  bird.  What  a  neat  and  deli 
cately  ornamented  creature !  finer  than  any  work 
of  art  in  a  lady's  boudoir,  with  its  soft,  light  pur 
plish-blue  crest,  and  its  dark  blue  or  purplish 
secondaries  (the  narrow  half)  finely  barred  with 
dusky.  It  is  the  more  glorious  to  live  in  Concord 
because  the  jay  is  so  splendidly  painted.  ...  In 
vain  were  the  brown  spotted  eggs  laid  [of  a  hen- 
hawk  killed] ,  in  vain  were  ye  cradled  in^he  lof 
tiest  pine  of  the  swamp !  Where  are  your  father 
and  mother  ?  will  they  hear  of  your  early  death, 
before  ye  had  acquired  your  full  plumage  ?  They 
who  nursed  and  defended  ye  so  faithfully  !  "  "  It  is 
already  fall  (August  4)  in  low  swampy  woods 
where  the  cinnamon-fern  prevails.  So  do  the 
seasons  revolve,  and  every  chink  is  filled.  While 
the  waves  toss  this  bright  day,  the  ducks  asleep  are 
drifting  before  it  across  the  ponds  ;  snow-buntings 
are  only  winged  snow-balls  (where  do  they  pass  the 


FIELD  SPORTS.  287 

night?)  This  (April  3)  might  be  called  the  Day 
of  the  Snoring  Frogs,  or  the  Awakening  of  the 
Meadows ;  and  toad-spawn  is  like  sun-squawl,  re 
lating  our  marshes  to  Province  town  Beach.  We 
love  to  wade  through  the  shallows  to  the  Bedford 
shore ;  it  is  delicious  to  let  our  legs  drink  air. 
The  palustris  frog  has  a  hard,  dry,  unmusical, 
fine,  watchman's-rattle-like  stertoration ;  he  knows 
no  winter.  .  .  .  Nature  works  by  contraries  :  that 
which  in  summer  was  most  fluid  and  unresting 
is  now,  in  February,  most  solid  and  motionless. 
Such  is  the  cold  skill  of  the  artist,  he  carves 
a  statue  out  of  a  material  which  is  as  fluid  as 
water  to  the  ordinary  workman, — his  sentiments 
are  a  quarry  with  which  he  works.  I  see  great 
bubbles  under  the  ice  as  I  settle  it  down,  three 
or  four  feet  wide,  go  waddling, or  wabbling  a. way, 
like  a^scared  lady  impeded  by  her  train.  So 
Nature  condenses  her  matter :  she  is  a  thousand 
thick." 

"  Some  circumstantial  evidence  is  very  strong, 
as  when  you  find  a  trout  in  the  milk.  '  Says  I  to 
Myself,'  —  should  be  the  motto  to  my  journal.  .  .  . 
They  think  they  love  God !  It  is  truly  his  old 
clothes  of  which  they  make  scarecrows  for  the 
children.  When  will  they  come  nearer  to  God 
than  in  those  very  children  ?  Hard  are  the  times 
when  the  infants'  shoes  are  second-foot,  —  trun- 


288  TEOEEAU. 

cated  at  the  toes.  There  is  one  side  of  Abner's 
house  painted  as  if  with  the  pumpkin  pies  left  over 
after  Thanksgiving,  it  is  so  singular  a  yellow :  • — 

"  And  foul  records 
Which  thaw  my  kind  eyes  still." 

"I  saw  the  seal  of  evening  on  the  river.  After 
bathing,  even  at  noonday,  a  man  realizes  a  morn 
ing  or  evening  life,  —  a  condition  for  perceiving 
beauty.  How  ample  and  generous  was  Nature ! 
My  inheritance  is  not  narrow.  The  water,  indeed, 
reflects  heaven  because  my  mind  does.  The  triv- 
ialness  of  the  day  is  past ;  the  greater  stillness, 
the  serenity  of  the  air,  its  coolness  and  transpar 
ency,  are  favorable  to  thought  (the  pensive  eve). 
The  shadow  of  evening  comes  to  condense  the 
haze  of  noon,  the  outlines  of  objects  are  firm  and 
distinct  (chaste  eve).  The  sun's  rays  fell  at 
right  angles  on  the  pads  and  willow-stems^I  sit 
ting  on  the  old  brown  geologic  rocks,  their  feet 
submerged  and  covered  with  weedy  moss.  There 
was  a  quiet  beauty  on  the  landscape  at  that  hour 
which  my  senses  were  prepared  to  appreciate.  I 
am  made  more  vigorous  by  my  bath,  more  con 
tinent  of  thought.  Every  sound  is  music  now  in 
view  of  the  sunset  and  the  rising  stars,  as  if  there 
were  two  persons  whose  pulses  beat  together." 


CHARACTERS.  289 


CHAPTER  XV. 

CHARACTERS. 

"Without  misfortunes,  what  calamity! 
And  what  hostility  without  a  foe?  " 

YOUNG. 

"  O  thou  quick  heart,  which  pantest  to  possess 
All  that  anticipation  feigneth  fair! 
Thou  vainly  curious  mind  which  wouldest  guess 
Whence  thou  didst  come,  and  whither  thou  mayst  go, 
And  that  which  never  yet  was  known  would  know." 

SHELLEY. 

*' How  seldom,  Friend!  a  good  great  man  inherits 
Honor  or  wealth,  with  all  his  worth  and  pains? 
Greatness  and  goodness  are  not  means,  but  ends,— 
Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always  friends, 
The  great  good  man?  three  treasures,  love  and  light 
And  calm  thoughts,  regular  as  infant's  breath." 

COLERIDGE. 

"  The  very  dust  of  his  writings  is  gold."  —  BENTLEY  OF  BISHOP  PEARSOK. 

T3  ECOURSE  can  once  more  be  had  to  the  note- 
books  of  Thoreau's  conversations,  as  giving 
his  opinions  in  a  familiar  sort  as  well  as  to  afford 
in  some  measure  a  shelter  from  the  blasts  of  fate. 
"  Here  is  news  for  a  poor  man,  in  the  raw  of  a 
September  morning,  by  way  of  breakfast  to  him." 

SOCIETY. 

The  house  looks  shut  up. 

Oh,  yes !  the  owner  is  gone ;  he  is  absolutely  out. 
is  s 


290  THOBEAU. 

"We  can  then  explore  the  grounds,  certain  not  to 
interrupt  the  studies  of  a  philosopher  famed  for 
his  hospitality. 

How  like  you  the  aspect  of  the  place  now  we 
have  passed  the  gate  ? 

It  seems  well  designed,  albeit  the  fences  are 
dropping  away,  the  arbors  getting  ready  for  a 
decent  fall,  and  the  bolts  and  pins  lacking  in  the 
machinery  of  the  gardens.  I  think  mostly  of  the 
owner,  whom  you,  however,  know  so  much  better 
than  I  can. 

I  know  him  as  I  know  old  fables  and  Grecian 
mythologies.  Further  from  all  this  modern  life, 
this  juggling  activity,  this  surperfluous  and  untam 
able  mediocrity,  seems  he  to  remove  with  each  sea 
son.  Dear  Eidolon  dwelleth  in  the  rainbow  vistas 
in  skies  of  his  own  creating.  No  man  in  history 
reminds  me  of  him,  nor  has  there  been  a  portrait 
left  us  of  so  majestic  a  creature,  who  certainly  hath 
more  a  fabled  and  half-divine  aspect  than  most 
of  those  so  liberally  worshipped  by  the  populace. 
Born  in  the  palmy  days  of  old  Greece,  and  under 
the  auspices  of  Plato,  he  would  have  founded  a 
school  of  his  own,  and  his  fame  had  then  descended 
to  posterity  by  his  wise  sayings,  his  lovely  man 
ners,  his  beautiful  person,  and  the  pure  austerities 
of  a  blameless  and  temperate  life.  Gladly  had  the 
more  eminent  sculptors  of  the  Athenian  metropolis 


CHARACTERS.  291 

chiselled  in  stone  his  mild  and  serene  countenance, 
his  venerable  locks,  and  in  the  free  and  majestic 
garb  of  those  picturesque  eras  he  would  have  ap 
peared  as  the  most  graceful  and  noble  of  all  their 
popular  figures.  He  would  have  founded  their 
best  institutions  especially  chosen  by  the  youth  of 
both  sexes,  and  all  who  loved  purity,  sanctity,  and 
the  culture  of  the  moral  sentiment  had  flocked 
about  this  convenient  and  natural  leader.  Nor 
should  his  posthumous  writings  have  been  left  ined- 
ited  ;  for  the  worthiest  of  his  scholars,  seizing  upon 
these  happy  proofs  of  his  indefatigable  industry,  and 
such  evidences  of  his  uninterrupted  communica 
tions  with  higher  natures,  would  have  made  it  the 
most  chosen  pleasure  of  his  life  to  have  prepared 
them  in  an  orderly  and  beautiful  design  for  coming 
ages.  I  know  not  but  he  had  been  worshipped 
formally  in  some  peculiar  temple  set  apart  for 
his  particular  religion,  for  there  inevitably  springs 
out  of  him  a  perfect  cultus,  which  a  wise  and 
imaginative  age  could  have  shaped  into  its  prac 
tical  advantage.  Born  upon  a  platform  of  sor 
did  and  mechanical  aims,  he  has  somewhat 
eclipsed  and  atrophied,  and,  if  detected  critically, 
blurred  with  scorn  or  ridicule,  so  that  perchance 
he  had  been  more  pleasantly  omitted  from  all 
observation. 

Thou  hast  drawn,  O  Musophilus !  the  portrait  of 


292  THOEEAU. 

a  null  imaginary  paragon.  I  have  not  seen  the 
Phoenix  of  whom  thou  hast  been  discoursing. 

No :  there  is  not  much  of  the  worshipping  kind 
in  thee,  though  thou  shouldst  pass  well  for  being 
worshipped.  Thou  art,  I  fear,  among  the  scoffers. 
Be  certain  that  the  truth  is  so ;  that  our  ancient 
Eidolon  does  represent  those  aspects  of  the  wor 
thier  ages,  and  yet  shall  his  memory  be  respected 
for  these  properties. 

I  admire  not  thy  notices  and  puffs  of  a  better 
age,  of  a  happier  time  :  Don  Quixote's  oration  to  the 
goat-herds  should  have  despatched  that  figment.  I 
like  better  Jarno's  opinion.  —  "  our  America  is  here 
or  nowhere."  Beneath  our  eyes  grow  the  flowers 
of  love,  religion,  sentiment,  and  valor.  To-day  is 
of  all  days  the  one  to  be  admired.  Alas  for  the 
sentimental  tenderness  of  Jean  Paul,  that  amusing 
madman  with  a  remnant  of  brains !  he  has  flung 
up  his  Indian  ocean  with  the  peacock-circle  of  its 
illuminated  waves  before  our  island,  and  Thomas 
Carlyle  with  his  bilious  howls  and  bankrupt 
draughts  on  hope  distracts  us.  Give  this  class  of 
unhappy  people  a  little  more  room  and  less  gloom. 
What  canker  has  crept  into  so  many  kind-hearted 
creatures  to  deride  our  respectable  times  ?  I  be 
lieve,  too,  in  the  value  of  Eidolon,  but  it  is  as  good 
company.  There  are  no  milestones,  no  guide-posts, 
set  up  in  that  great  listener's  waste.  His  ears  are 


CHARACTERS.  293 

open  spaces,  ab}rsses  of  air  into  which  you  may 
pour  all  day  your  wisest  and  best,  your  moonshine 
and  your  dreams,  and  still  he  stands  like  one  ready 
to  hear.  All  other  men  seem  to  me  obstructions. 
Their  minds  are  full  of  their  own  thoughts, — 
things  of  Egypt,  as  Mr.  Borrow's  gypsy  Antonio 
calls  them,  —  but  Eidolon  has  reached  this  planet 
for  no  purpose  but  to  hear  patiently,  smoothly,  and 
in  toto  the  doings  of  your  muse  ;  and  if  he  replies, 
it  is*  in  a  soft,  sweet,  and  floating  fashion,  in  a  sea 
of  soap-bubbles  that  puts  your  dull  phlegmatism 
going,  loosens  the  rusty  anchor  of  your  cupidity, 
and  away  sails  your  sloop. 

f  What  we  so  loosely  name  a  community  should 
have  been  the  appropriate  sphere  for  this  excellent 
genius.  Even  in  these  flatulent  attempts  they 
demand  what  they  call  a  practical  man,  a  desperate 
experimenter,  sure  to  run  the  communal  bank 
under  the  water.  A  few  gravelly  acres,  some  dry 
cows  and  pea-hens  to  saw  up  the  sunny  noons,  with 
our  good  Eidolon  at  the  head,  behold  a  possible 
community.  In  his  pocket  lies  the  practical  man's 
notions  of  communing,  —  I  mean  his  purse. 

I  have  fancied  Cervantes  shadows  in  his  novel 
the  history  of  our  socialists. 

Not  of  the  whole  :  ere  long  the  community  must 
be  the  idea  and  the  practice  of  American  society. 
Each  year  more  clearly  sets  forth  the  difficulties 


294  THOEEAU. 

under  which  we  labor  to  conduct  the  simplest 
social  operations,  like  mere  household  service. 
Such  a  rough  grindstone  is  your  Christian  Ameri 
can  family  to  the  hard- worked  Irish  girl,  and  wild 
is  the  reaction  of  the  strong-tempered  blade  on  the 
whirling  stone,  —  to  make  coffee  and  bake  bread. 
Not  to  do  the  thing  for  yourself  constitutes  the 
person  who  does  it  at  once  the  possessor  of  your 
moneys,  goods,  and  estate  ;  and,  from  the  lack  of 
sympathy  and  equality  in  the  contract,  Bridget 
slides  out  of  your  kitchen  the  victor  in  this  unequal 
contest,  when  you  have  made  her  by  your  lessons 
valuable  to  others.  And  what  better  is  your  rela 
tion  with  the  gentleman  you  send  to  Washington 
by  means  of  your  votes  and  good  wishes,  having 
his  eye  bent  on  the  main  chance.  Cities  are  ma 
lignant  with  crime  ;  paupers  are  classed  and  studied 
like  shrimps;  the  railroad  massacres  its  hundreds 
at  a  smash ;  steamboats  go  down,  and  blow  up  ; 
and  these  evils  are  increasing  steadily,  till  the 
social  crisis  comes.  Nothing  for  all  these  cases  but 
the  community,  no  more  selfish  agents,  no  corpo 
rations  fighting  each  other,  no  irresponsible  actors, 
—  all  must  be  bound  as  one  for  the  good  of  each, 
labor  organized  for  the  whole  equally. 

We  have  sat  too  long  in  this  crazy  arbor:  it 
is  contagious.  Let  us  walk  amid  last  year's  stalks. 
"  Little  joy  has  he  who  has  no  garden,"  says  Saadi. 


CHARACTERS. 

"  He  who  sees  my  garden  sees  my  heart,"  said  the 
prince  to  Bettine.  I  prefer  the  names  of  pears  to 
those  of  most  men  and  women.  Our  little  gentle 
man,  with  his  gaseous  inflamed  soul,  can  never  be 
satisfied  with  that  little  which  he  needs  and  not 
for  long.  Satisfied !  No,  Faintheart,  you  are  as 
unsatisfied  as  the  toper  without  his  glass,  the  maid 
without  her  lover,  or  the  student  without  his  book. 
I  can  allow  thee,  mortal  as  I  am,  but  six  minutes 
to  tell  thy  story.  What  needest  thou,  then,  added 
to  that  thou  hast  ?  Community,  indeed  !  a  mere 
artifice  of  the  do-nothings  to  profit  by  the  labors  of 
industry.  There  thou  art,  with  thy  five  feet  eight 
in  thy  shoes,  and  a  certain  degree  of  bodily  vigor 
and  constitution.  I  have  not  heard  thee  complain 
of  the  headache  or  the  gout ;  thou  hast  never  St. 
Anthony's  fire  ;  thy  corns,  if  thou  hast,  are  limited ; 
and  thou  canst,  on  occasion,  plod  thy  dozen  of  miles 
and  not  expire.  Let  us  agree  that  middle-age  has 
come,  and  one  half  the  vital  candle  has  been  burnt 
and  snuffed  away.  Some  kind  of  shed,  with  a 
moderate  appurtenance  of  shingle,  belongs  to  your 
covering,  on  the  outskirts  of  yonder  village  ;  some 
little  table-linen,  not  damask  I  grant ;  maybe  a 
cup  of  coffee  to  your  breakfast,  and  some  crust  of 
haddock,  or  soured  residuum  of  starch,  called  bread, 
to  thy  meal.  Of  clothing  thou  hast  not  cloth  of 
gold,  —  we  are  plain  country  people  and  decline 


296  THOREAU. 

it.  A  few  friends  remain,  as  many  or  more  than 
thou  hast  deserved.  Having  all  this,  some  liberty 
and  hope  of  Marston's  immortality  (that  depends 
on  personal  value),  I  seriously  demand,  what  more 
could  you  have  ?  Can  nothing  appease  the  ever 
disorderly  cravings  of  that  adamantine  contra 
diction,  thy  imbecile  soul  ?  Buy  him  up  or  flatter 
him  into  quiet ;  or  could  you  not  give  him  away  or 
sell  him  into  splendid  exile?  at  least,  expunge 
him ! 

Whichever  way  we  choose  in  the  fields,  or  down 
the  locomotive  spine  that  bands  with  yellow  the 
else  green  meadow,  you  wdll  observe  the  hay 
maker.  Now  is  the  high  holiday  and  the  festival 
of  that  gramineous  sect ;  now  are  the  cattle  kneeled 
to  by  humanity  ;  and  all  these  long  baking  days 
there  they  toil  and  drudge,  collating  the  winter 
hay-mow  of  cow  and  ox,  determined  by  some  secret 
fate  to  labor  for  an  inferior  race. 

They  are  so  serious  in  such  matters,  one  might 
suppose  they  never  speculate  on  the  final  cause  of 
pitching  hay. 

Just  as  seriously  this  excellent  society  contem 
plates  the  butcher,  the  grocer,  or  the  clergyman. 
As  if,  given  time  and  the  human  race,  at  once  fol 
lows  absurd  consequence.  Spring  to  your  pitch, 
jolly  haymakers  !  you  fancy  you  are  putting  time 
to  good  advantage  in  chopping  away  so  many  inno- 


CEARACTEES.  297 

cent  spires  of  grass,  drying  them,  and  laying  them 
industriously  in  the  mow.  In  spite  of  that  official 
serenity  which  nothing  can  disturb,  if  you  would 
forego  the  cow  and  horse  from  your  contemplations 
you  might  leave  the  grass  unmown  for  ever  and  a 
day.  Organize  an  idea  among  the  brethren  of 
spending  their  hours  after  a  certain  fashion,  and 
then  woe  be  to  the  lunatics  who  discern  its  imper 
fections.  In  history,  haymaking  may  figure  as  an 
amazing  bit  of  the  antique,  and  pitchforks  be  ex 
hibited  in  museums  for  curiosities. 

I  understand  your  jest :  it  is  your  old  notion  to 
abbreviate  human  work.  You  would  fain  intro 
duce  the  study  of  botany  or  metaphysics  for  these 
vigorous  games  of  our  sunburnt  swains,  and  con 
vert  them  into  sedentary  pedants,  to  be  fed  on 
huckleberries  and  mast.  In  the  sweat  of  thy  face 
shalt  thou  earn  thy  bread.  Labor  comes  out  of 
human  existence,  like  the  butterfly  out  of  the 
caterpillar.  How  tremendously  that  vigorous  Hi 
bernian  pokes  aloft  his  vast  pitchfork  of  blue  timo 
thy  !  May  I  never  be  seated  on  the  prong  !  And 
his  brogue  is  as  thick  as  his  hay-mow.  No  law  ever 
made  such  a  police  as  labor.  Early  to  bed  and 
early  to  rise  grows  by  farming.  Tire  him,  says 
Destiny ;  wear  him  out,  arms,  legs,  and  back ; 
secure  his  mischievous  wild  energy  ;  get  him  under, 
the  dangerous  cartridge  he  is  of  exploding  un- 

13* 


298  THOSE AU. 

licensed  sense  ;  and  whether  it  be  good  for  cow  or 
horse,  whatever  the  means,  the  end  is  delightful. 
Nature  must  have  made  the  human  race,  like  most 
of  her  things,  when  she  had  the  chance,  and  without 
consideration  of  the  next  step.  She  drove  along 
the  business,  and  so  invented  mankind  as  rapidly  as 
possible ;  and  observing  the  redskin,  cousin  to 
the  alligator,  —  living  on  the  mud  of  rivers,  the 
sap  of  trees,  with  a  bit  of  flat  stone  for  his  hatchet, 
and  a  bit  of  pointed  stone  for  his  cannon,  —  red 
skin,  a  wild  fellow,  savage  and  to  the  manner  born, 
—  leaving  the  woods  and  fields,  the  flowers,  in 
sects,  and  minerals  untouched,  she  was  thus  far 
pontent.  This  imperfect  redskin  was  surely  some 
improvement  upon  the  woodchuck  and  the  mus 
quash.  But  after  coming  to  the  age  of  bronze,  the 
Danish  Kitchen-moddings,  and  the  Swiss  lake- 
dwellings,  some  million  centuries,  and  a  certain 
development,  the  aboriginal  began  to  develop  a 
new  series  of  faculties  that  Nature  in  eliminating 
him  never  thought  nor  dreamed  of ;  for  we  must 
carefully  confess  Nature  misses  imagination.  Our 
redskin  had  fenced  himself  from  bears  and  deer 
with  their  own  skins,  lit  a  perennial  fire,  (was  it 
not  hard,  yet  to  be  expected  in  the  Greeks,  that 
they  had  never  a  temple  of  Prometheus  ?)  dug 
out  some  stones  and  melted  them,  burnt  the  trunks 
of  trees  into  boats,  at  length  built  houses,  and  all 


CHAEACTERS.  299 

the  while  with  his  arts,  fine  or  coarse,  grew  up  his 
passions.  Our  whiteskin  —  for  now  the  color  of 
him,  by  shelter  and  clothing,  had  turned  white 
—  became  a  cultivated  savage,  and  still  luxuriat 
ing  in  his  old  cannibal  propensities  hacked  and 
hewed,  fought  and  killed  his  kind,  much  to  the 
surprise  of  his  sleepy  mother ;  and  not  after  the 
honest  primeval  fashions  that  she  liked  wrell  enough, 
being  of  her  own  invention,  but  after  every  excru 
ciating  device  of  artist-demonism.  Now  what  could 
she  do  for  him,  how  keep  him  in  place,  circumvent 
his  trucidating  mania,  and  make  him  somewhat 
helpless  ?  It  was  the  work  of  a  moment  (Nature's 
moments  being  somewhat  extended),  an  accident. 
She  not  only  taught  whiteskin  how  to  work,  but  he 
came  to  be  just  a  mere  laboring  machine  ;  the  sav 
age  had  his  insouciance,  the  civilizee  has  his  com 
petitive  industry,  —  "dearest,  choose  between  the 
two  ?  "  This  new  toy  is  the  true  Danaides  sieve, 
the  rock  of  Tantalus,  which  is  christened  industry, 
economy,  or  money,  like  the  boy's  toad  in  the  well, 
whose  position  his  master  set  him  to  make  out  as  a 
task,  —  the  toad  jumping  one  step  up  and  falling 
two  steps  back,  how  long  would  it  require  for 
him  to  get  to  the  top  ?  The  boy  ciphered  a  long 
time  and  filled  his  slate,  went  through  recess,  and 
noon  and  afternoon :  at  last  his  instructor  asked 
him,  after  keeping  him  at  it  all  day,  as  to  his  pro- 


300  THOREAU. 

gress  and  how  far  he  had  got  the  toad.  "  What?  " 
said  the  boy,  —  "  that  toad,  that  nasty  little  toad  ? 

Why,  to  be  sure,  he  's  half   way  down   into 

by  this  time."  That  is  where  the  great  mother, 
blessings  on  her  comfort,  has  located  our  brother- 
man,  with  his  pitchfork,  plough-tail,  and  savings- 
bank.  It  is  the  consequence  of  a  quandary,  this 
boasted  civilization,  as  Fourier  terms  it,  when  Nat 
ure,  having  hurried  her  poor  plucked  creature  into 
existence  (even  if  Darwin  thinks  he  rubbed  off  his 
wool  climbing  bread-fruit  trees  and  flinging  down 
cocoa-nuts  to  his  offspring),  was  compelled  for  safety 
to  set  up  this  golden  calf,  this  lovely  mermaid-civ 
ilization,  with  a  woman's  head  and  a  fish's  tail, 
clipper-ships,  and  daily  papers.  Expediency  is 
Nature's  mucilage,  her  styptic.  Never  shall  we 
see  the  terminus  of  this  hastily  built  railroad,  no 
station.  But  there  must  be  a  race  that  will,  when 
the  mind  shall  be  considered  before  the  belly,  and 
when  raising  food  for  cows,  other  things  being  pos 
sible,  may  not  be  to  every  human  being  just  an  in 
scrutable  penalty.  Cows  may  get  postponed  after 
a  time  for  mere  men  and  women  ;  but  even  milking 
a  beast  is  a  better  course  of  policy  than  cutting 
holes  in  your  brother's  skull  with  a  bushwhack. 
Our  mythology  hath  in  it  a  great  counterpoise  of 
ethics  and  compensation,  while  the  Greeks  hung 
aloft  their  theoretical  people,  where  at  least  they 


CEAEACTEES.  301 

could  do  no  harm  if  they  did  not  any  benefit,  while 
some  of  our  goodies  to-day  seem  to  be,  like  the 
spider,  spinning  an  immortal  coil  of  ear-wax. 

I  strive  to  be  courtesy  itself,  yet  I  may  not 
accept  thy  fact  nor  thy  conclusion.  That  redskin 
was  nearer  nature,  was  truer  than  this  pale-face ; 
his  religion  of  the  winds,  the  waters  and  the  skies, 
was  clearer  and  fresher  than  your  dry  and  desiccated 
theologies,  dug  out  of  Egyptian  tombs  and  Numid- 
ian  sandbanks.  He  properly  worshipped  the  devil, 
the  evil  spirit,  wisely  agreeing  that  if  the  good  spirit 
was  of  that  ilk  he  was  harmless,  like  the  Latins, 
whom  I  look  upon  as  the  best  type  of  Indians  that 
ever  lived.  As  Tiberius  says,  who  made  his  Latin 
rhyme  (no  doubt  they  had  as  much  rhyme  as  they 
wanted),  "  deorum  injurice,  dis  curce"  —  "  the  gods 
may  cut  their  own  corns  for  all  me."  Or  what  old 
Ennius  thinks :  — 

"  Ego  deum  genus  dixi  et  dicam  coelitum, 
Sed  eos  non  curare,  opinor,  quid  agat  humanum  genus ; 
Nam,  si  curent,  bene  bonis  sit,  male  malis,  quod  nunc  abest." 

In  other  words,  "  I  know  all  about  your  race  of 
gods,  but  little  they  trouble  their  heads  about  your 
folks ;  if  they  cared  a  snap,  they  would  see  the  good 
well  off  and  the  bad  punished,  which  is  just  the 
opposite  to  the  fact."  Is  not  that  good  Indian? 
Or  what  Lucan  says  in  his  Pharsalia  (vii.  447)  :  — 


302  THOSE  AU. 

"  Mentimur  regnare  Jovem  .  .  .  mortalia  nulli 
Sunt  curata  Deo." 

"  Every  fool  knows  it 's  a  lie  that  Jove  reigns,  — 
the  gods  don't  busy  their  brains  about  such  no 
bodies  as  men."  I  try  to  give  you  the  ideas  of 
these  solemn  Latin  savages,  who  had  neither  hats 
to  their  heads,  shirts  to  their  bodies,  nor  shoes  to 
their  feet.  Why  might  not  some  learned  professor 
derive  us  from  the  Romans?  I  believe  a  return 
to  the  savage  state  would  be  a  good  thing,  interpo 
lating  what  is  really  worthy  in  our  arts  and  sci 
ences  and  thousand  appliances,  — 

"  That  the  wind  blows, 
Is  all  that  anybody  knows." 

I  believe  in  having  things  as  they  are  not  ?  Ay, 
down  to  the  dust  with  them,  slaves  as  they  are  ! 
Down  with  your  towns,  governments,  tricks  and 
trades,  that  seem  like  the  boy  who  was  building 
the  model  of  a  church  in  dirt  as  the  minister  was 
passing  !  "  Why,  my  little  lad,"  said  he,  "  why, 
making  a  meeting-house  of  that  stuff?  Why, 
why  !  "  "  Yes,"  answered  the  youth,  "  yes,  I  am  ; 
and  I  expect  to  have  enough  left  over  to  make  a 
Methodist  minister  besides."  There  is  always 
some  new  fatality  attending  your  civility.  Here  is 
our  town,  six  miles  square,  with  so  many  dogs  and 
cats,  so  many  men  and  women  upon  it,  a  town 
library  and  a  bar-room,  taxes,  prisons,  churches,  rail- 


CHAEACTERS.  303 

roads,  —  and  always  more  and  more  to  come.  And  I 
must  be  taxed  as  well  as  the  others ;  as  if  I  am  ripe 
for  chains  or  the  gibbet,  because  the  drunkard,  poi 
soned  with  his  own  rum  while  selling  it  for  the 
good  of  his  neighbors,  dies  of  cerebral  congestion 
or  a  pistol.  Society  has  no  definitions,  and  of 
course  no  distinctions ;  accepts  no  honesties,  be 
lieves  too  much  in  going  to  the  bad. 

You  are  over-critical.  The  true  art  of  life  con 
sists  in  accepting  things  as  they  are,  and  not 
endeavoring  vainly  to  better  them.  It  is  but  a 
drawing  of  lots.  I  am  melted  when  I  see  how 
finely  things  come  out,  and  pin-pricks  decide  grave 
affairs.  A  certain  man  (I  will  not  name  him  here, 
as  personalities  must  be  avoided)  determined  to 
keep  house  on  a  better  plan :  no  flies,  no  bills,  — 
even  the  cry  of  offspring  at  night  cancelled.  This 
was  enough  evil  for  that  day :  the  next  all  the 
doors  were  open,  flies  abounded,  children  cried  in 
swarms,  cash  for  bills  was  needed.  Our  friend 
began  again  with  it  all,  put  his  reforms  in  practice, 
and  serenity  came  from  his  efforts  for  the  time 
being ;  but  there  is  another  relapse  as  soon  as  his 
hand  leaves  the  crank  of  the  household.  So  he 
consults  Mrs.  Trip,  —  she  has  experience  as  a  house 
keeper,  —  details  his  wretchedness  :  life  is  at  such  a 
pass,  expense  vast,  little  to  be  had  for  it  and  noth- 
iug  to  defray  it ;  a  ream  of  German  fly-paper  has 


304  THOEEAU. 

produced  double  the  number  of  flies  that  it  kills ; 
as  for  his  babies,  there  seems  to  have  been  a  com 
bination  among  them  to  blow  their  lungs  out  with 
squalls.  Mrs.  Trip  heard  the  social  horrors,  and 
said,  "  Mr.  Twichett,  excuse  me,  there  is  a  little 
matter."  "  Yes,  mum,  I  know  it,"  says  our  gen 
tleman,  supposing  it  the  latest  infant  or  the  bill  for 
salt-fish.  "  It  appears,  Mr.  Twichett,  that  you 
keep  your  eyes  open.  Yes,  sir!  you  keep  your 
eyes  open." 

CHKYSOSTOM. 

I  lately  paid  a  visit  upon  an  ingenious  gentle 
man,  and  found  him  mopping  up  a  topic  which  had 
a  singular  importance  in  his  eyes,  and  that  was 
New  England.  "  Indeed,"  I  thought,  "  a  fine 
subject  for  the  dead  of  winter !  "  You  must 
know,  sir,  that  friend  Chrysostom  presents  the 
aspect  of  man  talking,  as  dear  Eidolon  thinking. 
And,  as  the  honey-lipped  philosopher  is  about  to 
embark  on  a  voyage  to  the  provinces,  he  is  resolved 
to  enlighten  them  there  on  this  his  favorite  prob 
lem.  "  Indeed,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "  this  man, 
like  Curtius,  is  also  a  hero  in  his  way :  he  is  a  man 
of  parts  ;  and,  next  to  beating  carpets  on  the  Com 
mon,  I  must  say  he  chooses  delightful  subjects." 
I  fell  upon  him  with  my  modern  flail,  to  see  what 
grain  I  could  find  amid  his  glittering  straws. 


CHARACTERS.  305 

.  And  how  did  you  prosper  ?     Was  there  much 
sediment  in  the  husk? 

Chrysostom  is  too  learned  a  master  of  his  weapon 
to  abandon  all  his  treasure  to  the  unreserved  gaze 
of  each  incredulous  worldling.  He  has,  however, 
attained  proximately  to  something  that  might  be 
termed  a  criticism  of  New  England.  Good,  bad, 
or  indifferent,  'tis  not  a  pure  vacuity  that  one  finds 
in  this  pitiful  corner  of  a  continent,  with  Cape 
Cod  for  a  seacoast  and  Wachusett  for  a  mountain. 
Chrysostom  has  picked  his  men  as  specimens  of  the 
mass;  his  persons  on  which  he  so  much  insists, 
the  merchant,  the  scholar,  the  reformer,  the  proser, 
and  what  not,  —  along  the  dusty  high-roads  of 
life,  but  you  may  not  greatly  expand  the  list,  — 
lead  flats.  A  few  serenities  stand  sentinel  on  the 
watch-towers  of  thought,  not  as  stars  to  the  mass,  but 
as  burnt-out  tar-barrels.  Materialism  carves  tur 
keys  and  cuts  tunnels.  Be  bright,  my  dear  talker, 
shine  and  go  along ;  as  Dante  says,  "  Hurry  on  your 
words."  I  deemed  not  so  much  of  his  topics  as  of 
the  man  himself,  greater  far  than  all  his  topics,  the 
ultimate  product  of  all  the  philosophies,  with  an 
Academe  of  Types.  He  has  caught  the  universe 
on  his  thumbnail,  and  cracked  it ;  he  has  been  at 
the  banquet  of  the  gods,  and  borrowed  the  spoons. 
Most  other  men  have  some  superstitious  drawback 
to  them,  some  want  of  confidence  in  their  uni- 


306  THOREAU. 

versal  wholes.  But  our  great  friend,  with  his  mus 
cular  habit  of  thought,  grasps  hold  of  infinity  and 
breaks  it  across  his  arm,  as  Gustavus  Adolphus, 
that  hero  of  Captain  Dalgetty's,  a  horse-shoe. 
"  Never,"  said  he,  "  can  you  get  a  good  brain  until 
all  the  people  of  the  earth  are  poured  into  one,  and 
when  the  swarthy  Asiatic  thinks  in  the  same  skull 
with  the  ghostly  Swede.  And  soon  I  see  that  this 
railroad  speed  of  the  age  shall  transmigrate  into 
the  brain.  Then  shall  we  make  the  swiftness  of 
the  locomotive  into  the  swiftness  of  the  thought ; 
and  the  great  abolition  society  shall  come,  not  of 
slavery  alone,  —  in  dress  and  diet,  in  social  relations 
and  religion.  It  may  not  prevail  for  a  pair  of  her 
mits  to  go  out  together  and  make  a  community ; 
for  so  shall  they  be  the  more  solitary.  You  think 
the  men  are  too  near  that  I  should  draw  their  por 
traits  truly,  but  you  know  not  that  I  am  living  as 
one  dead,  and  that  my  age  is  like  one  walking  far 
off  in  a  dream  to  me.  That  golden  steed,  the  Pe 
gasus,  on  which  I  am  mounted,  has  shot  with  me 
far  beyond  the  thoughts  and  the  men  of  to-day." 
As  he  said  this,  I  looked  up  at  the  window,  cer 
tainly  expecting  to  see  some  sort  of  strange  appa 
rition  in  the  air,  some  descent  of  a  sign  from  heaven 
upon  this  glorious  expanding  beyond  time  ;  but  all 
I  could  see  was  a  fat  serving-maid,  in  a  back  case 
ment,  arranging  some  furniture  with  a  vacillating 


CEAEACTEES.  307 

rag.  Types  of  the  ideal  and  the  real,  I  thought  to 
myself,  "  Man  should  never  for  an  instant  blame 
the  animals,"  he  continued,  "for  showing  their 
apparent  inferiorities :  they  do  simply  formalize  our 
sins ;  and  Agorax  should  beware  of  pork,  as  he 
is  feasting  upon  his  ancestry.  The  tail  of  the 
dog  is  the  type  of  the  affections."  No  matter 
how  dry  the  topic,  it  seems  as  if  Chrysostom 
had  plunged  down  into  the  cellar  of  the  gods, 
and  moistened  his  intellectual  clay  at  every 
golden  cider-bung.  "  Nature  is  a  fine  setting  for 
man  ;  and  when  I  speak  of  the  New  English,  how 
can  I  forget  the  departure  from  their  old  abbeys, 
green  fields,  and  populated  wheat-lands  for  this  sour 
fish-skin  ?  Three  degrees  of  elevation  towards  the 
pole  overturn  all  jurisprudence,  and  virtue  faints 
in  the  city  of  the  pilgrims.  The  handsome  youth 
fires  the  tragic  pistol,  the  handsome  girl  seeks  her 
swift  revenge  on  prose  in  her  opium.  And  in  these 
architectures  cold,  still,  and  locked,  in  these  flat, 
red-brick  surfaces,  and  the  plate-glass  windows 
that  try  to  flatten  your  nose  when  you  think  to 
look  in,  —  do  you  not  behold  something  typical? 
This  prismatic  nucleus  of  trade,  deducting  its  tolls 
from  the  country  through  its  roads,  drawing  Ver 
mont  and  New  Hampshire  and  floating  them  away 
o'er  yon  glittering  blue  sea  between  those  icy 
islands !  Some  smaller  German  orchestra  leads  off 


308  TEOBEA  U. 

the  musical  ear,  and  the  shops  are  cracking  with 
French  pictures  that  would  not  be  sold  in  Paris. 
The  merchant  has  his  villa,  his  park,  and  his  ca- 
leche  :  it  is  the  recoil  of  the  passions ;  it  is  fate, 
and  no  star  of  heaven  is  visible.  The  oak  in  the 
flower-pot  might  serve  as  a  symbol ;  or,  as  Jugur- 
tha  said,  when  he  was  thrust  into  his  prison, 
4  Heavens,  how  cold  is  this  bath  of  }rours ! '  If 
the  All-Father  had  said  to  our  metaphysical  North 
man,  to  this  Brain-berserkir :  Come  and  sit  thee 
beneath  the  fluttering  palms,  and  listen  to  the  flow 
of  lordly  rivers  ;  thee  will  I  feed  on  orient  pearls  of 
dew.  thy  bed  shall  be  of  sun-flowers,  thy  dress 
of  the  gossamer  twilight !  " 

Light  from  the  spirit-land, 

Fire  from  a  burning  brand, 

If  in  this  cold  sepulchral  clime, 

Chained  to  an  unmelodious  rhyme, 

Thou  slowly  moulderest,  — 
Yet  cheer  that  great  and  humble  heart, 
Prophetic  eye  and  sovereign  part, 
And  be  thy  future  greatly  blest, 
And  by  some  richer  gods  impressed, 

And  a  sublimer  art. 

Strike  on !  nor  still  the  golden  lyre, 
That  sparkles  with  Olympian  fire, 
And  be  thy  words  the  soul's  desire 
Of  this  dark  savage  land ; 


CHARACTERS.  309 

Nor  shall  thy  sea  of  glory  fail 
Whereon  thou  sweepest,  —  spread  thy  sail, 
And  blow  and  fill  the  heaviest  gale, 
It  shall  not  swerve  thy  hand. 

Born  for  a  fate  whose  secrets  none 
Shall  gaze  upon  beneath  earth's  sun, 
Child  of  the  high,  the  only  One, 

Thy  glories  sleep  secure  ; 
Yet  on  the  coast  of  heaven  thy  wave 
Shall  dash  beyond  an  unknown  grave, 
And  cast  its  spray  to  light  and  save 

Some  other  barks  that  moor ! 


310  THOBEAU. 


t 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

MORAL. 


"  Exactissima  norma  Bomanae  frngalitatis." 

Said  of  Mannius  Ourius. 

"  Laborers  that  have  no  land 
To  lyve  on  but  hire  handes." 

PIERS  PLOWMAN. 

"Les  gros  bataillons  on£  toujours  raison." 


"  The  day  that  dawns  in  fire  will  die  in  storms, 
Even  though  the  noon  be  calm." 

SHELLEY. 

"  When  thou  dost  shine,  darkness  looks  white  and  fair, 
Frowns  turn  .to  music,  clouds  to  smiles  and  air." 

VAUGHAN. 

"  Dum  in  Proelio  non  procul  hinc 
Inclinatam  suorum  aciem 
Mente  manu  voce  et  exemplo 
Bestituebat 

Pugnans  ut  heroas  decet 
Occubuit." 

MARSHAL  KEITH'S  EPITAPH. 


T  T  7HAT  a  life  is  the  soldier's,  —  like  other 
*  *  men's  !  what  a  master  is  the  world !  Heaven 
help  those  who  have  no  destiny  to  fulfil,  balked  of 
every  chance  or  change,  of  all  save  the  certainty  of 
death !  Thoreau  had  a  manifest  reason  for  living. 
He  used!  to  say,  "I  do  not  know  how  to  entertain 


MORAL.  311 

those  who  can't  take  long  walks.^  A  night  and  a 
forenoon  is  as  much  confinement  to  those  wards 
(the  house)  as  I  can  stand."  And  although  the 
rich  and  domestic  could  "  beat  him  in  frames," 
like  that  Edinburgh  artist  whom  Turner  thus  com 
plimented,  he  was  their  match  in  the  open.  Men 
affected  him  more  naturally.  "  How  earthy  old 
people  become,  —  mouldy  as  the  grave.  Their 
wisdom  smacks  of  the  earth :  there  is  no  foretaste 
of  immortality  in  it.  They  remind  one  of  earth 
worms  and  mole-crickets."  Seeing  the  negro  barber 
sailing  alone  up  the  river  on  a  very  cold  Sunday, 
he  thinks  he  must  have  experienced  religion  ;  a 
man  bathing  from  a  boat  in  Fairhaven  Pond  sug 
gests  :  "  Who  knows  but  he  is  a  poet  in  his  yet 
obscure  and  golden  youth  ?  "  And  he  loved  to  go 
unmolested.  He  would  not  be  followed  by  a  dog 
nor  cane.  He  said  the  last  was  too  much  com 
pany.  When  asked  whether  he  knew  a  young 
miss,  celebrated  for  her  beauty,  he  inquired,  "  Is 
she  the  one  with  the  goggles  ?  "  He  thought  he 
never  noticed  any  one  in  the  street ;  yet  his  con 
temporaries  may  have  known  as  much  of  him  while 
living  as  of  Shakespeare  when  dead.  His  mental 
appearance  at  times  almost  betrayed  irritability ; 
his  words  were  like  quills  on  the  fretful  porcupine 
(a  libel  on  the  creature,  which  is  patience  ab  ovo). 
One  of  his  friends  complained  of  him :  "  He  is  so 


312  THOREAU. 

pugnacious  I  can  love,  but  I  can  never  like  him." 
And  he  had  a  strong  aversion  to  the  Scribes  and 
Pharisees.  Those  cracked  potsherds,  traditionary 
institutions,  served  him  as  butts,  against  whose 
sides  he  discharged  the  arrows  of  his  wit,  echoing 
against  their  massive  hollowness.  Yet,  truly,  the 
worship  of  beauty,  of  the  fine  things  in  nature,  of 
all  good  and  friendly  pursuits,  was  his  staple  ;  he 
enjoyed  common  people  ;  he  relished  strong,  acrid 
characters. 

When  with  temperaments  radically  opposed  to 
his,  he  drew  in  the  head  of  his  pugnacity  like 
that  portion  of  one  of  his  beloved  turtles,  and 
could  hiss  and  snap  with  any  ancient  of  them  all. 
The  measured,  conservative  class,  dried-up  Puritan 
families,  who  fancy  the  Almighty  Giver  of  all  good 
things  has  fitted  their  exquisite  brain  precisely  to 
his  evangelic  nightcap ;  prosers  with  their  uni 
verse  of  meanness  and  conceit  to.  change  square 
with  you  against  gold  and  diamonds ;  folks  of 
easy  manners,  polished  and  oiled  to  run  sharply  on 
the  track  of  lies  and  compliments,  —  of  such  he  was 
no  great  admirer.  Neither  did  he  go  with  Goe 
the,  that  other  people  are  wig-blocks  on  which  we 
must  fit  our  own  false  heads  of  hair  to  fetch  them 
out.  Like  a  cat  he  would  curl  up  his  spine  and 
spit  at  a  fop  or  monkey,  and  despised  those  who 
were  running  well  down  hill  to  damnation.  His 


MORAL.  313 


advice  to  a  drunkard  as  the  wisest  plan  for  him  to 
reform,  "  You  had  better  cut  your  throat,"/-*—  that 
was  his  idea  of  moral  suasion,  and  corresponded 
with  his  pleasure  at  John  Brown's  remark  of  a  bor 
der  ruffian  he  had  despatched,  rapidly  paring  away 
his  words,  A-  "  He  had  a  perfect  right  to  be  hung." 
To  this  his  question  points,  —  "If  it  were  not  for 
virtuous,  brave,  generous  natures,  would  there  be 
any  sweet  fragrance  ?  Genius  rises  above  nature  in 
spite  of  heat,  in  spite  of  cold,  works  and  lives." 
Persons  with  whom  he  had  no  sympathy  were  to 
him  more  removed  than  stocks  and  stones :  "  Look 
ing  at  the  latter,  I  feel  comparatively  as  if  I  were 
with  my  kindred.  Men  may  talk  about  measures 
till  all  is  blue  and  smells  of  brimstone,  and  then  go 
home  and  expect  their  measures  to  do  their  duty 
for  them :  the  only  measure  is  integrity  and  man 
hood.  We  seem  to  have  used  up  all  our  inherited 
freedom  like  the  young  bird  •  the  albumen  in  the 
shell.  Ah,  how  I  have  thriven  on  solitude  and  pov 
erty  !  I  cannot  overstate  this  advantage,  I  am  per 
haps  more  wilful  than  others.  Common  life  is  hasty, 
coarse,  and  trivial,  as  if  you  were  a  spindle  in  a  fac 
tory.  No  exercise  implies  more  manhood  and  vigor 
than  joining  thought  to  thought.  How  few  men  can 
tell  what  they  have  thought !  I  hardly  know  half  a 
dozen  who  are  not  too  lazy  for  this.  You  conquer 
fate  by  thought.  If  you  think  the  fatal  thought  of 
u 


314  j  TEOEEAV. 

men  and  institutions,  you  need  never  pull  the  trig 
ger.  The  consequences  of  thinking  inevitably  fol 
low.  There  is  no  more  Herculean  task  than  to  think 
a  thought  about  this  life,  and  then  get  it  expressed. 
There  are  those  who  never  do  or  say  any  thing, 
whose  life  merely  excites  expectation.  Their  excel 
lence  reaches  no  further  than  a  gesture  or  mode  of 
carrying  themselves ;  they  are  a  sash  dangling  from 
the  waist,  or  a  sculptured  war-club  over  the  shoulder. 
v  They  are  like  fine-edged  tools  gradually  becoming 
rusty  in  a  shop- window.  I  like  as  well,  if  not  bet 
ter,  to  see  a  piece  of  iron  or  steel  out  of  which  such 
tools  will  be  made,  or  the  bushwhack  in  a  man's 
hand.  .  .  .  The  watchmaker  finds  the  oil  from 
the  porpoise's  jaw  the  best  thing  for  oiling  his 
watches.  Man  has  a  million  eyes,  and  the  race 
knows  infinitely  more  than  the  individual.  Con 
sent  to  be  wise  through  your  race.  We  are  never 
prepared  to  believe  that  our  ancestors  lifted  large 
stones  or  built  thick  walls.  .  .  .  There  is  always 
some  accident  in  the  best  things,  whether  thoughts, 
or  expressions,  or  deeds.  The  memorable  thought, 
the  happy  expression,  the  admirable  deed  are  only 
partly  ours.  The  thought  came  to  us  because  we 
were  in  a  fit  mood,  also  we  were  unconscious  and 
did  not  know  that  we  had  said  or  done  a  good 
thing.  We  must  walk  consciously  only  part  way 
toward  our  goal,  and  then  leap  in  the  dark  to  our 


MORAL.  315 

success.     What  we  do  best  or  most  perfectly  isf 
what  we  most  thoroughly  learned  by  the  longest 
practice,  and  at  length  it  fell  from  us  without  our 
notice  as  a  leaf  from  a  tree.     It  is  the  last  time  we 
shall  do  it,  —  our  unconscious  leavings  :  — 

'  Man  is  a  summer's  day,  whose  youth  and  fire 
Cool  to  a  glorious  evening  and  expire/ 

"  It  is  remarkable  how  little  we  attend  to  what 
is  constantly  passing  before  us,  unless  our  genius 
directs  our  attention  that  way.  In  the  course  of 
ages  the  rivers  wriggle  in  their  beds  until  it  feels 
comfortable  under  them.  Time  is  cheap  and  rather 
insignificant.  It  matters  not  whether  it  is  a  river 
which  changes  from  side  to  side  in  a  geological 
period,  or  an  eel  that  wriggles  past  in  an  instant. 
A  man's  body  must  be  rasped  down  exactly  to  a 
shaving.  The  mass  of  men  are  very  unpoetic,  yet 
that  Adam  that  names  things  is  always  a  poet. 
No  man  is  rich  enough  to  keep  a  poet  in  his  pay,  yet 
what  a  significant  comment  on  our  life  is  the  least 
strain  of  music.  This  poor,  timid,  unenlightened, 
thick-skinned  creature,  what  can  it  believe  ?  When 
I  hear  music,  I  fear  no  danger ;  I  am  invulnerable  ; 
I  see  no  foe ;  I  am  related  to  the  earliest  times, 
and  to  the  latest.  I  hear  music  below  ;  it  washes 
the  dust  off  my  life  and  every  thing  I  look  at.  The 
field  of  my  life  becomes  a  boundless  plain,  glorious 
to  tread,  with  no  death  or  disappointment  at  the 


316  THOEEAU. 

end  of  it.  In  the  light  of  this  strain  there  is  no 
Thou  nor  I.  How  inspiring  and  elysian  it  is  to 
hear  when  the  traveller  or  the  laborer,  from  a  call 
to  his  horse  or  the  murmur  of  ordinary  conversa 
tion,  rises  into  song  !  It  paints  the  landscape  sud 
denly  ;  it  is  at  once  another  land,  —  the  abode  of 
poetry.  Why  do  we  make  so  little  ado  about 
echoes  ?  they  are  almost  the  only  kind  of  kindred 
voices  that  we  hear :  — 

'  Scattering  the  myrrhe  and  incense  of  thy  prayer.' " 

A  coxcomb  was  railed  at  for  his  conceit :  he  said, 
"  It  is  so  common  every  one  has  it ;  why  notice  it 
specially  in  him  ?  "  He  gets  up  a  water-color  sketch 
of  an  acquaintance.  "  He  is  the  moodiest  person 
perhaps  I  ever  saw.  As  naturally  whimsical  as  a 
cow  is  brindled,  both  in  his  tenderness  and  in  his 
roughness  he  belies  himself.  He  can  be  incredibly 
selfish  and  unexpectedly  generous.  He  is  con 
ceited,  and  yet  there  is  in  him  far  more  than  usual 
to  ground  conceit  upon.  He  will  not  stoop  to  rise. 
He  wants  something  for  which  he  will  not  pay  the 
going  price.  He  will  only  learn  slowly  by  failure, 
not  a  noble  but  a  disgraceful  failure,  and  writes 
poetry  in  a  sublime  slip-shod  style."  But  despite 
his  caveats^  his  acceptance  was  large,  he  took  nearly 
every  bill.  The  no-money  men,  butter-egg  folks  ; 
women  who  are  talking-machines  and  work  the 


MORAL.  317 

threads  of  scandal ;  paupers,  walkers,  drunk  or  dry, 
poor-house  poets,  no  matter,  the  saying  of  Tacitus 
abided,  — u  I  am  a  man,  and  nothing  human  but 
what  can  go  down  with  me."  Of  such  a  one  he 
says,  "  His  face  expressed  no  more  curiosity  or  rela 
tionship  to  me  than  a  custard  pudding."  Of  such 
is  the  kingdom  of  poor  relations. 

No  man  had  a  better  unfinished  life.  His  antici 
pations  were  vastly  rich :  more  reading  was  to  be 
done  over  Shakespeare  and  the  Bible ;  more  choice 
apple-trees  to  be  set  in  uncounted  springs,  —  for  his 
chief  principle  was  faith  in  all  things,  thoughts,  and 
times,  and  he  expected,  as  he  said,  "  to  live  for  forty 
years."  He  loved  hard  manual  work,  and  did 
not  mean  to  move  every  year,  like  certain  literary 
brethren.  In  his  business  of  surveying  he  was 
measurably  diligent,  and  having  entered  on  a  plan 
would  grind  his  vest  away  over  the  desk  to  have 
done  with  it.  He  laid  out  every  molecule  of  fidel 
ity  upon  his  employer's  interests,  and  in  setting  a 
pine-lot  for  one  says,  "  I  set  every  tree  with  my 
own  hands."  Yet  like  moralists,  though  he  tried 
to  pay  every  debt  as  if  God  wrote  the  bill,  he  takes 
himself  to  task :  "I  remember  with  a  pang  the  past 
spring  and  summer  thus  far.  I  have  not  been  an 
early  riser:  society  seems  to  have  invaded  and 
overrun  me." 

Thus  intensely  he  endeavored  to  live,  but  living 


318  THOSE  AU. 

is  not  all.  He  had  now  more  than  attained  the 
middle  age,  his  health  sound  to  all  appearance,  his 
plans  growing  more  complete,  more  cherished  ;  new 
lists  of  birds  and  flowers  projected,  new  details  to 
be  gathered  upon  trees  and  plants,  now  embarking 
more  closely  in  the  details  of  this  human  enterprise 
which  had  been  something  miscellaneous ;  the  time 
had  fairly  come  to  take  an  account  of  stock,  and  to 
know  how  we  really  stood  on  terra  firma.  Here 
was  a  great  beginning  in  a  condition  of  matchless 
incompleteness  to  be  adjusted  by  no  one  but  the 
owner.  In  November,  1860,  he  took  a  severe  cold 
by  exposing  himself  while  counting  the  rings  on 
trees  and  when  there  was  snow  on  the  ground.  This 
brought  on  a  bronchial  affection,  which  he  much 
increased  by  lecturing  at  Waterbury ;  and  although 
he  used  prudence  after  this,  and  indeed  went  a-jour- 
neying  with  his  friend,  Horace  Mann,  Jr.,  into 
Minnesota,  this  trouble  with  the  bronchiae  con 
tinued.  With  an  unfaltering  trust  in  God's  mer 
cies  and  never  deserted  by  his  good  genius,  he  most 
bravely  and  unsparingly  passed  down  the  inclined 
plane  of  a  terrible  malady,  pulmonary  consump 
tion,  working  steadily  at  the  completing  of  his  pa 
pers  to  his  last  hours,  or  so  long  as  he  could  hold 
the  pencil  in  his  trembling  fingers.  Yet,  if  he  did 
get  a  little  sleep  to  comfort  him  in  this  year's  cam 
paign  of  sleepless  affliction,  he  was  sure  to  interest 


MORAL.  319 

those  about  him  with  his  singular  dreams,  more 
than  usually  fantastic :  he  said  once  that,  having 
got  a  few  moments  of  repose,  "  sleep  seemed  to 
hang  round  my  bed  in  festoons."  The  last  sen 
tence  he  incompletely  spoke  contained  but  two  dis 
tinct  words,  "moose,"  and  "  In'dians,"  showing 
how  fixed  in  his  mind  was  that  relation.  Then  the 
world  he  had  so  long  sung  and  delighted  in  faded 
tranquilly  away  from  his  eyes  and  hearing,  till  on 
that  beautiful  spring  morning  of  May  6th,  1862,  it 
closed  on  him. 

"  In  this  roadstead  I  have  ridden, 
In  this  covert  I  have  hidden, 
Friendly  thoughts  were  cliffs  to  me, 
And  I  was  beneath  their  lea. 

This  true  people  took  the  stranger, 
And  warm-hearted  housed  the  ranger; 
They  received  their  roving  guest, 
And  have  fed  him  with  the  best ; 

Whatsoe'er  the  land  afforded 
To  the  stranger's  wish  accorded, 
Shook  the  olive,  stripped  the  vine, 
And  expressed  the  strengthening  wine. 

And  by  night  they  did  spread  o'er  him 
What  by  day  they  spread  before  him, 
That  good-will  which  was  repast 
Was  his  covering  at  last." 


320  THOSE AU. 

His  state  of  mind  during  this,  his  only  decided 
illness,  deserves  notice  as  in  part  an  idiosyncrasy. 
He  accepted  it  heroically,  but  in  no  wise  after  the 
traditional  manner.  He  experienced  that  form  of 
living  death  when  the  very  body  refuses  sleep,  such 
is  its  deplorable  dependence  on  the  lungs  now 
slowly  consumed  by  atoms ;  in  its  utmost  terrors 
refusing  aid  from  any  opiate  in  causing  slumber, 
and  declaring  uniformly  that  he  preferred  to  endure 
with  a  clear  mind  the  worst  penalties  of  suffering, 
rather  than  be  plunged  in  a  turbid  dream  by  nar 
cotics.  He  ineffably  retired  into  his  inner  mind, 
into  that  unknown,  unconscious,  profound  world 
of  existence  where  he  excelled ;  there  he  held  in 
scrutable  converse  with  just  men  made  perfect,  or 
what  else,  absorbed  in  himself.  "  The  night  of 
time  far  surpasses  the  day ;  and  who  knows  when 
was  the  equinox  ?  Every  hour  adds  unto  the  cur 
rent  arithmetic,  which  scarce  stands  one  moment. 
And  since  death  must  be  the  Lucina  of  life  ;  since 
our  longest  sun  sets  on  right  declensions,  and  makes 
but  winter  arches,  therefore  it  cannot  be  long  before 
we  lie  down  in  darkness  and  have  our  light  in 
ashes.  Sense  endureth  no  extremities,  and  sor 
rows  destroy  us  or  themselves :  our  delivered  senses 
not  relapsing  into  cutting  remembrances,  our  sor 
rows  are  not  kept  raw  by  the  edge  of  repetitions." 
An  ineffable  reserve  shrouded  this  to  him  unfore- 


MORAL.  321 

seen  fatality:  he  had  never  reason  to  believe  in 
what  he  could  not  appreciate,  nor  accepted  formu 
las  of  mere  opinions ;  the  special  vitalization  of  all 
his  beliefs,  self-consciously,  lying  in  the  marrow  of 
his  theology. 

As  noticed,  he  had  that  forecast  of  life  which  by 
no  means  fulfils  its  prediction  deliberately ;  else 
why  are  these  mortal  roads  on  which  we  so  pre- 
dictively  travel  strewn  with  the  ashes  of  the  young 
and  fair,  —  this  Appian  Way  devised  in  its  tombs, 
from  the  confidence  of  the  forty  years  to  come? 
"Quisque  suos  patimur  manes,  —  we  have  all  our 
infirmities  first  or  last,  more  or  less.  There  will 
be,  peradventure,  in  an  age,  or  one  of  a  thousand, 
a  Pollio  Romulus,  that  can  preserve  himself  with 
wine  and  oil ;  a  man  as  healthy  as  Otto  Hervar- 
dus,  a  senator  of  Augsburg  in  Germany,  whom 
Leovitius,  the  astrologer,  brings  in  for  an  example 
and  instance  of  certainty  in  his  art ;  who,  because 
he  had  the  significators  in  his  geniture  fortunate, 
and  free  from  the  hostile  aspects  of  Saturn  and 
Mars,  —  being  a  very  cold  man,  —  could  not  re 
member  that  ever  he  was  sick."  The  wasting  away 
of  his  body,  the  going  forth  and  exit  of  his  lungs, 
which,  like  a  steady  lamp,  give  heat  to  the  frame, 
was  to  Henry  an  inexplicably  foreign  event,  the 
labors  of  another  party  hi  which  he  had  no  hand ; 
though  he  still  credited  the  fact  to  a  lofty  in- 

14*  U 


322  TEOREAU. 

spiration.  He  would  often  say  that  we  could  look  on 
ourselves  as  a  third  person,  and  that  he  could  per 
ceive  at  times  that  he  was  out  of  his  mind.  Words 
could  no  longer  express  these  inexplicable  condi 
tions  of  his  existence,  this  sickness  which  reminded 
him  of  nothing  that  went  before  :  such  as  that 
dream  he  had  of  being  a  railroad  cut,  where  they 
were  digging  through  and  laying  down  the  rails, 
—  the  place  being  in  his  lungs.  His  habit  of  en 
grossing  his  thoughts  in  a  journal,  which  had  lasted 
for  a  quarter  of  a  century  ;  his  out-of-door  life,  of 
which  he  used  to  say,  if  he  omitted  that,  all  his 
living  ceased,  —  all  this  now  became  so  incontro- 
vertibly  a  thing  of  the  past  that  he  said  once,  stand 
ing  at  the  window,  "  I  cannot  see  on  the  outside  at 
all.  We  thought  ourselves  great  philosophers  in 
those  wet  days,  when  he  used  to  go  out  and  sit 
down  by  the  wall-sides."  This  was  absolutely  all 
he  was  ever  heard  to  say  of  that  outward  world 
during  His  illness  ;  neither  could  a  stranger  in  the 
least  infer  that  he  had  ever  a  friend  in  field  or 
wood.  Meanwhile,  what  was  the  consciousness  in 
him,  —  what  came  to  the  surface  ?  Nothing  save 
duty,  duty,  work,  work !  As  Goethe  said  at  the 
loss  of  his  son,  "It  is  now  alone  the  idea  of  duty 
that  must  sustain  us,"  Thoreau  now  concentrated 
all  his  force,  caught  the  shreds  of  his  fleeting  phys 
ical  strength  the  moment  when  the  destinies  ac- 


MORAL.  323 

corded  to  him  a  long  breath,  to  complete  his  stories 
of  the  Maine  Woods,  then  in  press ;  endeavor 
vainly  to  finish  his  lists  of  Birds  and  Flowers,  and 
arrange  his  papers  on  Night  and  Moonlight.  Never 
at  any  time  at  all  communicative  as  to  his  own 
physical  condition,  having  caught  that  Indian  trick 
of  superlative  reticence,  he  calmly  bore  the  fatal 
torture,  this  dying  at  the  stake,  and  was  torn  limb 
from  limb  in  silence  :  — 

"  When  all  this  frame 

Is  but  one  dramme,  and  what  thou  now  descriest 
In  sev'rall  parts  shall  want  a  name." 

His  patience  was  unfailing :  assuredly  he  knew 
not  aught  save  resignation ;  he  did  mightily  cheer 
and  console  those  whose  strength  was  less.  His 
every  instant  now,  his  least  thought  and  work, 
sacredly  belonged  to  them,  dearer  than  his  rapidly 
perishing  life,  whom  he  should  so  quickly  leave 
behind.  As  long  he  could  possibly  sit  up,  he  in 
sisted  on  his  chair  at  the  family-table,  and  said, 
"  It  would  not  be  social  to  take  my  meals  alone." 
And  on  hearing  an  organ  in  the  streets,  playing 
some  old  tune  of  his  childhood  he  should  never 
hear  again,  the  tears  fell  from  his  eyes,  and  he  said, 
"  Give  him  some  money  !  give  him  some  money !  " 

"  He  was  retired  as  noontide  dew, 
Or  fountain  in  a  noon-day  grove ; 


324  THOSE AU. 

And  you  must  love  him,  ere  to  you 
He  would  seem  worthy  of  your  love. 

The  outward  shows  of  sky  and  earth, 
Of  hill  and  valley,  he  has  viewed ; 
And  impulses  of  deeper  birth 
Have  come  to  him  in  solitude." 

His  mortal  ashes  are  laid  in  the  Concord  bury- 
ing-ground.  A  lady  on  seeing  this  tranquil  spot, 
and  the  humble  stone  under  the  pitch-pine  tree,  re 
plied  to  one  who  wished  for  him  a  starry-pointing 
monument,  "  This  village  is  his  monument,  covered 
with  suitable  inscriptions  by  himself." 

Truth,  audacity,  force,  were  among  Thoreau's 
mental  characteristics,  devoted  to  humble  uses. 
His  thoughts  burned  like  flame,  so  earnest  was  his 
conviction.  He  was  transported  infinitely  beyond 
the  regions  of  self  when  pursuing  his  objects,  single- 
hearted,  doing  one  thing  at  a  time  and  doing  that 
in  the  best  way !  Self-reliance  shall  serve  for  his 
motto,  — 

"  His  cold  eye  truth  and  conduct  scanned." 

His  faith  in  wildness  was  intrinsic.  Whatever 
sport  it  was  of  nature,  this  child  of  an  old  civiliza 
tion,  this  Norman  boy  with  the  blue  eyes  and  brown 
hair,  held  the  Indian's  creed,  and  believed  that 
plant  and  animal  were  a  religion  unto  themselves 
and  unto  him.  He  spoke  with  that  deeper  than 


MORAL.  325 

self-conscious  conviction  which  must  animate  na 
ture.  It  required,  literally,  an  unquestioning 
obedience  to  that  sphere  and  rule  of  life  he  kept ; 
his  means  to  his  ends,  —  Thoreau,  the  Poet- 
Naturalist. 


MEMORIAL    VERSES, 


ILLUSTRATING   CHIEFLY 


SCENES  OF  THOREAU'S  LIFE. 


To  HENRY. 
WHITE  POND. 
A  LAMENT. 
MORRICE  LAKE. 
TEARS  IN  SPRING. 


THE  MILL  BROOK. 
STILLRIVER,   THE   WINTEB 

WALK. 
TRURO. 


MEMORIAL   VERSES.  329 


To  HENBY. 

HEAKEST  thou  the  sobbing  breeze  complain 
How  faint  the  sunbeams  light  the  shore?- 

His  heart  more  fixed  than  earth  or  main, 
Henry !  thy  faithful  heart  is  o'er. 

Oh,  weep  not  thou  thus  vast  a  soul, 
Oh,  do  not  mourn  this  lordly  man, 

As  long  as  Walden's  waters  roll, 
And  Concord  river  fills  a  span. 

For  thoughtful  minds  in  Henry's  page 
Large  welcome  find,  and  bless  his  verse, 

Drawn  from  the  poet's  heritage, 

From  wells  of  right  and  nature's  source. 

Fountains  of  hope  and  faith !  inspire 
Most  stricken  hearts  to  lift  this  cross, 

His  perfect  trust  shall  keep  the  fire, 
His  glorious  peace  disarm  the  loss  1 


330  TEOREAU. 


II. 

WHITE  POND. 

GEM  of  the  wood  and  playmate  of  the  sky, 
How  glad  on  thee  we  rest  a  weary  eye, 
When  the  late  ploughman  from  the  field  goes  home, 
And  leaves  us  free  thy  solitudes  to  roam ! 

Thy  sand  the  naiad  gracefully  had  pressed, 
Thy  proud  majestic  grove  the  nymph  caressed, 
Who  with  cold  Dian  roamed  thy  virgin  shade, 
And,  clothed  in  chastity,  the  chase  delayed, 
To  the  close  ambush  hastening  at  high  noon, 
When  the  hot  locust  spins  his  Zendic  rune. 

Here  might  Apollo  touch  the  soothing  lyre, 

As  through  the  darkening  pines  the  day's  low  fire 

Sadly  burns  out,  and  Venus  nigh  delay 

With  young  Adonis,  while  the  moon's  still  ray 

Mellows  the  fading  foliage,  as  the  sky 

Throws  her  blue  veil  of  twilight  mystery. 

No  Greece  to-day,  no  dryad  haunts  the  road 
Where  sun-burned  farmers  their  poor  cattle  goad ; 
The  black  crow  caws  above  yon  steadfast  pine, 
And  soft  Mitchella's  odorous  blooms  entwine 


MEMORIAL   VEESES.  331 

These  mossy  rocks,  and  piteous  catbirds  scream, 
And    redskins    flicker   through    the  white   man's 
dream. 

Who  haunts  thy  wood-path?  —  ne'er  in  summer 

pressed 

Save  by  the  rabbit's  foot,  its  winding  best 
Kept  a  sure  secret,  till  the  tracks,  in  snow 
Dressed  for  their  sleds,  the  lumbering  woodmen 

plough. 

How  soft  yon  sunbeam  paints  the  hoary  trunk, 
How  fine  the  glimmering  leaves  to  shadow  sunk ! 
Then  streams  across  our  grassy  road  the  line 
Drawn  firmly  on  the  sward  by  the  straight  pine ; 
And  curving  swells  in  front  our  feet  allure, 
While  far  behind  the  curving  swells  endure ; 
Silent,  if  half  pervaded  by  the  hum 
Of  the  contented  cricket.     Nature's  sum 
Is  infinite  devotion.     Days  nor  time 
She  emulates,  —  nurse  of  a  perfect  prime. 
Herself  the  spell,  free  to  all  hearts ;  the  spring 
Of  multiplied  contentment,  if  the  ring 
With  which  we're  darkly  bound. 

The  pleasant  road 

Winds  as  if  Beauty  here  familiar  trode, 
Her  touch  the  devious  curve  persuasive  laid, 
Her  tranquil    forethought   each,  bright   primrose 

stayed 

In  its  right  nook.     And  where  the  glorious  sky 
Shines  in,  and  bathes  the  verdant  canopy, 
The  prospect  smiles  delighted,  while  the  day 
Contemns  the  village  street  and  white  highway. 


332  TEOEEAU. 

Creature  all  beauteous !     In  thy  future  state 
Let  beauteous  Thought  a  just  contrivance  date ; 
Her  altars  glance  along  thy  lonely  shore, 
Relumed ;  and  on  thy  leafy  forest  floor 
Tributes  be  strewn  to  some  divinity 
Of  cheerful  mien  and  rural  sanctity. 
Pilgrims  might  dancing  troop  their  souls  to  heal; 
Cordials,  that  now  the  shady  coves  conceal, 
Reft  from  thy  crystal  shelves,  we  should  behold, 
And  by  their  uses  be  thy  charms  controlled. 

Naught  save  the  sallow  herdsboy  tempts  the  shore, 
His  charge  neglecting,  while  his  feet  explore 
Thy  shallow  margins,  when  the  August  flame 
Burns  on  thy  edge  and  makes  existence  tame ; 
Naught  save  the  blue  king-fisher  rattling  past, 
Or  leaping  fry  that  breaks  his  lengthened  fast ; 
Naught  save  the  falling  hues  when  Autumn's  sigh 
Beguiles  the  maple  to  a  sad  reply ; 
Or  some  peculiar  air  a  sapless  leaf 
Guides  o'er  thy  ocean  by  its  compass  brief. 

Save  one,  whom  often  here  glad  Nature  found 
Seated  beneath  yon  thorn,  or  on  the  ground 
Poring  content,  when  frosty  Autumn  bore 
Of  wilding  fruit  to  earth  that  bitter  store ; 
And  when  the  building  winter  spanned  in  ice 
Thy  trembling  limbs,  soft  lake !  then  each  device 
Traced  in  white  figures  on  thy  seamed  expanse 
This  child  of  problems  caught  in  gleeful  trance. 
Oh,  welcome  he  to  thrush  and  various  jay, 
And  echoing  veery,  period  of  the  day ! 


MEMORIAL    VERSES.  333 

To  each  clear  hyla  trilling  the  new  spring, 
And  late  gray  goose  buoyed  on  his  icy  wing ; 
Bold  walnut-buds  admire  the  gentle  hand, 
While  the  shy  sassafras  their  rings  expand 
On  his  approach,  and  thy  green  forest  wave, 
White  Pond  !  to  him  fraternal  greetings  gave. 
The  far  white  clouds  that  fringe  the  topmost  pine 
For  his  delight  their  fleecy  folds  decline ; 
The  sunset  worlds  melted  their  ores  for  him, 
And  lightning  touched  his  thought  to  seraphim. 
Clear  wave,  thou  wert  not  vainly  made,  I  know, 
Since  this  sweet  man  of  Nature  thee  could  owe 
"A  genial  hour,  and  hope  that  flies  afar, 
And  revelations  from  thy  guiding  star. 
Oh,  may  that  muse,  of  purer  ray,  recount, 
White  Pond  !  thy  glory,  and,  while  anthems  mount 
In  strains  of  splendor,  rich  as  sky  and  air, 
Thy  praise,  my  Henry,  might  those  verses  share. 
For  He  who  made  the  lake  made  it  for  thee, 
So  good  and  great,  so  humble  yet  so  free ; 
And  waves  and  woods  we  cannot  fairly  prove, 
Like  souls  descended  from  celestial  Jove, 
Men  that  defraud  the  pathos  of  the  race 
By  cheerful  aims,  and  raise  their  dwelling-place 
On  safe  Olympus  ;  hopes  that  swell  untold, 
Too  far  for  language,  honesty  ne'er  sold. 

With  thee  he  is  associate.     Hence  I  love 

Thy  gleams,  White  Pond !  thy  dark,  familiar  grove ; 

Thy  deep  green  shadows,  clefts  of  pasture  ground ; 

Mayhap  a  distant  bleat  the  single  sound, 

One  distant  cloud,  the  sailor  of  the  sky, 

One  voice,  to  which  my  inmost  thoughts  reply.    • 


334  THOEEAU. 


III. 
A  LAMENT. 

A  WAIL  for  the  dead  and  the  dying ! 

They  fall  in  the  wind  through  the  Gilead  tree, 

Off  the  sunset's  gold,  off  hill  and  sea ; 

They  fall  on  the  grave  where  thou  art  lying, 
Like  a  voice  of  woe,  like  a  woman  sighing, 

Moaning  her  buried,  her  broken  love, 

Never  more  joys,  —  never  on  earth,  never  in  heaven 
above ! 

Ah,  me !  was  it  for  this  I  came  here  ? 
Christ !  didst  thou  die  that  for  this  I  might  live  ? 

An  anguish,  a  grief  like  the  heart  o'er  the  bier  — 
Grief  that  I  cannot  bury,  nor  against  it  can  strive  — 
Life-long  to  haunt  me,  while  breath  brings  to-morrow, 
Falling  in  spring  and  in  winter,  rain  and  sleet  sorrow, 
Prest  from  my  fate  that  its  future  ne'er  telleth, 
Spring  from  the  unknown  that  ever  more  welleth. 

Fair,  O  my  fields !  soft,  too,  your  hours ! 
Mother  of  earth,  thou  art  pleasant  to  see ! 

I  walk  o'er  thy  sands,  and  I  bend  o'er  thy  flowers. 
There  is  nothing,  O  nothing,  thou  givest  me, 
Nothing,  O  nothing,  I  take  from  thee. 


MEMORIAL    VERSES.  335 

What  are  thy  heavens,  so  blue  and  so  fleeting  ? 
(Storms,  if  I  reck  not),  no  echo  meeting 
In  this  cold  heart,  that  is  dead  to  its  beating, 
Caring  for  nothing,  parting  or  greeting ! 


336 


THOREAU. 


IV. 

MOERICE  LAKE. 

ON  Morrice  Lake  I  saw  the  heron  flit 
And  the  wild  wood-duck  from  her  summer  perch 
Scale  painted  by,  trim  in  her  plumes,  all  joy ; 
And  the  old  mottled  frog  repeat  his  bass, 
Song  of  our  mother  earth,  the  child  so  dear. 
There,  in  the  stillness  of  the  forest's  night, 
Naught  but  the  interrupted  sigh  of  the  breeze, 
Or  the  far  panther's  cry,  that,  o'er  the  lake, 
Touched  with  its  sudden  irony  and  woke 
The  sleeping  shore  ;  and  then  I  hear  its  crash, 
Its  deep  alarm-gun  on  the  speechless  night,  — - 
A  falling  tree,  hymn  of  the  centuries. 

No  sadness  haunts  the  happy  lover's  mind, 
On  thy  lone  shores,  thou  anthem  of  the  woods, 
Singing  her  calm  reflections  ;  the  tall  pines, 
The  sleeping  hill-side  and  the  distant  sky, 
And  thou !  the  sweetest  figure  in  the  scene, 
Truest  and  best,  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

O  Thou,  the  ruler  of  these  forest  shades, 
And  by  thy  inspiration  who  controll'st 


MEMORIAL    VERSES.  337 

The  wild  tornado  in  its  narrow  path, 

And  deck'st  with  fairy  wavelets  the  small  breeze, 

That  like  some  lover's  sigh  entreats  the  lake ; 

O  Thou,  who  in  the  shelter  of  these  groves 

Build's t  up  the  life  of  nature,  as  a  truth 

Taught  to  dim  shepherds  on  their  star-lit  plains, 

Outwatchiug  midnight ;  who  in  these  deep  shades 

Secur'st  the  bear  and  catamount  a  place, 

Safe  from  the  glare  of  the  infernal  gun, 

And  leav'st  the  finny  race  their  pebbled  home, 

Domed  with  thy  watery  sunshine,  as  a  mosque ; 

God  of  the  solitudes!  kind  to  each  thing 

That  creeps  or  flies,  or  launches  forth  its  webs,  — 

Lord  !  in  thy  mercies,  Father !  in  thy  heart, 

Cherish  thy  wanderer  in  these  sacred  groves ; 

Thy  spirit  send  as  erst  o'er  Jordan's  stream, 

Spirit  and  love  and  mercy  for  his  needs. 

Console  him  with  thy  seasons  as  they  pass, 

And  with  an  unspent  joy  attune  his  soul 

To  endless  rapture.     Be  to  him,  —  thyself 

Beyond  all  sensual  things  that  please  the  eye, 

Locked  in  his  inmost  being ;  let  no  dread, 

Nor  storm  with  its  wild  splendors,  nor  the  tomb, 

Nor  all  that  human  hearts  can  sear  or  scar, 

Or  cold  forge tfuln ess  that  withers  hope, 

Or  base  undoing  of  all  human  love, 

Or  those  faint  sneers  that  pride  and  riches  cast 

On  unrewarded  merit,  —  be,  to  him, 

Save  as  the  echo  from  uncounted  depths 

Of  an  unfathomable  past,  burying 

All  present  griefs. 


15 


338  THOSE  A  U. 

Be  merciful,  be  kind  ! 

Has  he  not  striven,  true  and  pure  of  heart, 
Trusting  in  thee  ?     Oh,  falter  not,  ray  child  ! 
Great  store  of  recompense  thy  future  holds, 
Thy  love's  sweet  councils  and  those  faithful  hearts 
Never  to  be  estranged,  that  know  thy  worth. 


MEMORIAL    VERSES.  339 


V. 

TEARS  ix  SPRING. 

THE  swallow  is  flying  over, 

But  he  will  not  come  to  me  ; 

He  flits,  my  daring  rover, 

From  land  to  land,  from  sea  to  sea ; 

Where  hot  Bermuda's  reef 

Its  barrier  lifts  to  fortify  the  shore, 

Above  the  surf's  wild  roar 

He  darts  as  swiftly  o'er,  — 

But  he  who  heard  his  cry  of  spring 

Hears  that  no  more,  heeds  not  his  wing. 

How  bright  the  skies  that  dally 

Along  day's  cheerful  arch, 

And  paint  the  sunset  valley ! 

How  redly  buds  the  larch  ! 

Blackbirds  are  singing, 

Clear  hylas  ringing, 

Over  the  meadow  the  frogs  proclaim 

The  coming  of  Spring  to  boy  and  dame, 

But  not  to  me,  — 

!N  or  thee ! 

And  golden  crowfoot 's  shining  near, 
Spring  everywhere  that  shoots  'tis  clear, 


340  THOEEAU. 

A  wail  in  the  wind  is  all  I  hear ; 
A  voice  of  woe  for  a  lover's  loss, 
A  motto  for  a  travelling  cross,  — 
And  yet  it  is  mean  to  mourn  for  tbee, 
In  the  form  of  bird  or  blossom  or  bee. 

Cold  are  the  sods  of  the  valley  to-day 
Where  thou  art  sleeping, 
That  took  thee  back  to  thy  native  clay ; 
Cold,  —  if  above  thee  the  grass  is  peeping 
And  the  patient  sunlight  creeping, 
While  the  bluebird  sits  on  the  locust-bough 
Whose  shadow  is  painted  across  thy  brow, 
And  carols  his  welcome  so  sad  and  sweet 
To  the  Spring  that  comes  and  kisses  his  feet. 


MEMORIAL    VERSES.  341 


VI. 

THE  MILL  BROOK. 

THE  cobwebs  close  are  pencils  of  meal, 

Painting  the  beams  unsound, 
And  the  bubbles  varnish  the  glittering  wheel 

As  it  rumbles  round  and  round. 
Then  the  Brook  began  to  talk 

And  the  water  found  a  tongue, 
We  have  danced  a  long  dance,  said  the  gossip, 

A  long  way  have  we  danced  and  sung. 

Rocked-  in  a  cradle  of  sanded  stone 

Our  waters  wavered  ages  alone, 

Then  glittered  at  the  spring 

On  whose  banks  the  feather-ferns  cling, 

And  down  jagged  ravines 

We  fled  tortured, 

And  our  wild  eddies  nurtured 

Their  black  hemlock  screens ; 

And  o'er  the  soft  meadows  we  rippled  along, 

And  soothed  their  lone  hours  with  a  sweet  pensive 

song,— 

Now  at  this  mill  we're  plagued  to  stop, 
To  let  our  miller  grind  the  crop. 

So  the  clumsy  farmers  come 

With  their  jolting  wagons  far  from  home. 


342  THOREAU. 

We  grind  their  grist,  — 

It  wearied  a  season  to  raise, 

Weeks  of  sunlight  and  weeks  of  mist, 

Days  for  the  drudge  and  Holydays. 

To  me  fatal  it  seems, 

Thus  to  kill  a  splendid  summer, 

And  cover  a  landscape  of  dreams 

In  the  acre  of  work  and  not  murmur. 

I  could  lead  them  where  berries  grew, 

And  sweet  flag-root  and  gentian  blue, 

And  they  will  not  come  and  laugh  with  me, 

Where  my  water  sings  in  its  joyful  glee ; 

Yet  small  the  profit,  and  short  lived  for  them, 

Blown  from  Fate's  whistle  like  flecks  of  steam. 

The  old  mill  counts  a  few  short  years,  — 

Ever  my  rushing  water  steers ! 

It  glazed  the  starving  Indian's  red, 

On  despair  or  pumpkin  fed, 

And  oceans  of  turtle  notched  ere  he  came, 

Species  consumptive  to  Latin  and  fame, 

(Molluscous  dear  or  orphan  fry, 

Sweet  to  Nature,  I  know  not  why). 

Thoughtful  critics  say  that  I 
From  yon  mill-dam  draw  supply.  — 
I  cap  the  scornful  Alpine  heads, 
Amazons  and  seas  have  beds, 
But  I  am  their  trust  and  lord. 
Me  ye  quaff  by  bank  and  board, 
Me  ye  pledge  the  iron-horse, 
I  float  Lowells  in  my  source. 


MEMORIAL    VERSES.  343 

The  farmers  lug  their  bags  and  say,  — 

"  Neighbor,  wilt  thou  grind  the  grist  to-day  ?  " 

Grind  it  with  his  nervous  thumbs, 

Clap  his  aching  shells  behind  it, 

Crush  it  into  crumbs  ? 

No !  his  dashboards  from  the  wood 
Hum  the  dark  pine's  solitude  ; 
Fractious  teeth  are  of  the  quarry 
That  I  crumble  in  a  hurry,  — 
Far-fetched  duty  is  to  me 
To  turn  this  old  wheel  carved  of  a  tree. 

I  like  the  maples  in  my  side, 

Dead  leaves,  the  darting  trout ; 

Laconic  rocks  (they  sometime  put  me  out) 

And  moon  or  stars  that  ramble  with  my  tide, 

The  polished  air,  I  think  I  could  abide. 

This  selfish  race  to  prove  me, 
Who  use,  but  do  not  love  me  ! 
Their  undigested  meal 
Pays  not  my  labor  on  the  wheel. 
I  like  better  the  sparrow 
Who  sips  up  a  drop  at  morn, 
Than  the  men  who  vex  my  marrow, 
To  grind  their  cobs  and  corn. 

Then  said  I  to  my  brook,  "  Thy  manners  mend, 
Thou  art  a  tax  on  earth  for  me  to  spend." 


344  THOEEAU. 


VII. 
STILLEIVER,  THE  WINTER  WALK. 

THE  busy  city  or  the  heated  car, 

The  unthinking  crowd,  the  depot's  deafening  jar, 

These  me  befit  not,  but  the  snow-clad  hill 

From  whose  white  steeps  the  rushing  torrents  fill 

Their  pebbly  beds,  and  as  I  look  content 

At  the  red  Farm-house  to  the  summit  lent, 

There,  —  underneath  the  hospitable  elm, 

That  broad  ancestral  tree,  that  is  the  helm 

To  sheltered  hearts,  —  not  idly  ask  in  vain, 

Why  was  I  born,  —  the  heritage  of  pain  ? 

The  gliding  trains  desert  the  slippery  road, 

The  weary  drovers  wade  to  their  abode ; 

I  hear  the  factory  bell,  the  cheerful  peal 

That  drags  cheap  toil  from  many  a  hurried  meal. 

How  dazzling  on  the  hill-side  shines  the  crust, 

A  sheen  of  glory  unprofaned  by  dust! 

And  where  thy  wave,  Stillriver,  glides  along, 

A  stream  of  Helicon  unknown  in  song, 

The  pensive  rocks  are  wreathed  in  snow-drifts  high 

That  glance  through  thy  soft  tones  like  witchery. 

To  Fancy  we  are  sometimes  company, 
And  solitude 's  the  friendliest  face  we  see. 


MEMORIAL    VERSES.  345 

Some  serious  village  slowly  through  to  pace, 

No  form  of  all  its  life  thine  own  to  trace ; 

Where  the  cross  mastiff  growls  with  blood-shot  eye, 

And  barks  and  growls  and  waits  courageously; 

Its  peaceful  mansions  my  desire  allure 

Not  each  to  enter  and  its  fate  endure,  — 

But  fancy  fills  the  window  with  its  guest; 

The  laughing  maid,  —  her  swain  who  breaks  the  jest; 

The  solemn  spinster  staring  at  the  fire, 

Slow  fumbling  for  his  pipe,  her  solemn  sire ; 

The  loud-voiced  parson,  fat  with  holy  cheer, 

The  butcher  ruddy  as  the  atmosphere ; 

The  shopboy  loitering  with  his  parcels  dull, 

The  rosy  school-girls  of  enchantment  full. 

Away  from  these  the  solitary  form 
Has  for  the  mind  a  strange  domestic  charm, 
On  some  keen  winter  morning  when  the  snow 
Heaps  roof  and  casement,. lane  and  meadow  through. 
Yet  in  those  wralls  how  many  a  heart  is  beating, 
What  spells  of  joy,  of  sorrow,  there  are  meeting! 
One  dreads  the  post,  as  much  the  next,  delay, 
Lest  precious  tidings  perish  on  their  way. 
The  graceful  Julia  sorrows  to  refuse 
Her  teacher's  mandate,  while  the  boy  let  loose 
Drags  out  his  sled  to  coast  the  tumbling  hill, 
Whence  from  the  topmost  height  to  the  low  rill, 
Shot  like  an  arrow  from  the  Indian's  bow, 
Downward  he  bursts,  life,  limb,  and  all  below 
The  maddening  joy  his  dangerous  impulse  gives; 
In  age,  how  slow  the  crazy  fact  revives ! 


15* 


346  THOREAU. 

Afar  I  track  the  railroad's  gradual  bend, 
I  feel  the  distance,  feel  the  silence  lend 
A  far  romantic  charm,  the  Farm-house  still 
And  spurn  the  road  that  plods  the  weary  hill,  — 
When  like  an  avalanche  the  thundering  car 
Whirls  past,  while  bank  and  rail  deplore  the  jar. 
The  wildly  piercing  whistle  through  my  ear 
Tells  me  I  fright  the  anxious  engineer ; 
I  turn,  —  the  distant  train  and  hurrying  bell 
Of  the  far  crossing  and  its  dangers  tell. 
And  yet  upon  the  hill-side  sleeps  the  farm, 
Nor  maid  or  man  or  boy  to  break  the  charm. 

Delightful  Girl !  youth  in  that  farm-house  old, 
The  tender  darling  in  the  tender  fold,  — 
Thy  promised  hopes  fulfilled  as  Nature  sought 
With  days  and  years  the  income  of  thy  thought ; 
Sweet  and  ne'er  cloying,  beautiful  yet  free, 
Of  truth  the  best,  of  utter  constancy ; 
Thy  cheek  whose  blush  the  mountain  wind  laid  on, 
Thy  mouth  whose  lips  were  rosebuds  in  the  sun ; 
Thy  bending  neck,  the  graces  of  thy  form, 
Where  art  could  heighten,  but  ne'er  spoil  the  charm ; 
Pride  of  the  village  school  for  thy  pure  word, 
Thy  pearls  alone  those  glistening  sounds  afford  ; 
Sure  in  devotion,  guileless  and  content, 
The  old  farm-house  is  thy  right  element. 
Constance  !  such  maids  as  thou  delight  the  eye, 
In  all  the  Nashua's  vales  that  round  me  lie ! 

And  thus  thy  brother  was  the  man  no  less, — 
Bred  of  the  fields  and  with  the  wind's  impress. 


MEMORIAL    VERSES.  347 

With  hand  as  open  as  his  heart  was  free, 

Of  strength  half-fabled  mixed  with  dignity. 

Kind  as  a  boy,  he  petted  dog  and  hen, 

Coaxed  his  slow  steers,  nor  scared  the  crested  wren. 

And  not  far  off  the  spicy  farming  sage, 

Twisted  with  heat  and  cold,  and  cramped  with  age, 

Who  grunts  at  all  the  sunlight  through  the  year 

And  springs  from  bed  each  morning  with  a  cheer. 

Of  all  his  neighbors  he  can  something  tell,  — 

'Tis  bad,  whate'er,  we  know,  and  like  it  well !  — 

The  bluebird's  song  he  hears  the  first  in  spring, 

Shoots  the  last  goose  bound  South  on  freezing  wing. 

Ploughed  and  unploughed  the  fields  look  all  the  same, 

White  as  the  youth's  first  love  or  ancient's  fame ; 

Alone  the  chopper's  axe  awakes  the  hills, 

And  echoing  snaps  the  ice-encumbered  rills, 

Deep  in  the  snow  he  wields  the  shining  tool, 

Nor  dreads  the  icy  blast,  himself  as  cool. 

Seek  not  the  parlor,  nor  the  den  of  state 

For  heroes  brave,  make  up  thy  estimate 

From  these  tough  bumpkins  clad  in  country  mail, 

Free  as  their  air  and  full  without  detail. 

No  gothic  arch  our  shingle  Paestum  boasts,  — 
Its  pine  cathedral  is  the  style  of  posts,  — 
No  crumbling  abbey  draws  the  tourist  here 
To  trace  through  ivied  windows  pictures  rare, 
Not  the  first  village  squire  allows  his  name 
From  aught  illustrious  or  debauched  by  fame. 

That  sponge  profane  who  drains  away  the  bar 
Of  yon  poor  inn  extracts  the  mob's  huzza ; 


348  TEOBEAU. 

Conscious  of  morals  lofty  as  their  own, 

The  glorious  Democrat,  —  his  life  a  loan. 

And  mark  the  preacher  nodding  o'er  the  creed, 

With  wooden  text,  his  heart  too  soft  to  bleed. 

The  ^Esculapius  of  the  little  State, 

A  typhus  sage,  sugars  his  pills  in  fate, 

Buries  three  patients  to  adorn  his  gig, 

Buys  foundered  dobbins  or  consumptive  pig; 

His  wealthy  pets  he  kindly  thins  away, 

Gets  in  their  wills,  —  and  ends  them  in  a  day. 

Nor  shall  the  strong  schoolmaster  be  forgot, 

With  fatal  eye  who  boils  the  grammar  pot : 

Blessed  with  large  arms  he  deals  contusions  round, 

While  even  himself  his  awful  hits  confound. 

Pregnant  the  hour  when  at  the  tailor's  store, 
Some  dusty  Bob  a  mail  bangs  through  the  door. 
Sleek  with  good  living,  virtuous  as  the  Jews, 
The  village  squires  look  wise,  desire  the  news. 
The  paper  come,  one  reads  the  falsehood  there, 
A  trial  lawyer,  lank-jawed  as  despair. 
Here,  too,  the  small  oblivious  deacon  sits, 
Once  gross  with  proverbs,  now  devoid  of  wits, 
And  still  by  courtesy  he  feebly  moans, 
Threadbare  injunctions  in  more  threadbare  tones. 
Sly  yet  demure,  the  eager  babes  crowd  in, 
Pretty  as  angels,  ripe  in  pretty  sin. 
And  the  postmaster,  suction-hose  from  birth, 
The  hardest  and  the  tightest  screw  on  earth, 
His  price  as  pungent  as  his  hyson  green, 
His  measure  heavy  on  the  scale  of  lean. 


MEMORIAL    VERSES.  349 

A  truce  to  these  reflections,  as  I  see 
The  winter's  orb  burn  through  yon  leafless  tree, 
Where  far  beneath  the  track  Stillriver  runs, 
And  the  vast  hill-side  makes  a  thousand  suns. 
This  crystal  air,  this  soothing  orange  sky, 
Possess  our  lives  with  their  rich  sorcery. 
We  thankful  muse  on  that  superior  Power 
That  with  his  splendor  loads  the  sunset  hour, 
And  by  the  glimmering  streams  and  solemn  woods 
In  glory  walks  and  charms  our  solitudes. 


350  THOREAU. 


VIII. 

T  K  U  R  O. 


TEN  steps  it  lies  from  off  the  sea, 

Whose  angry  breakers  score  the  sand, 
A  valley  of  the  sleeping  land, 

Where  chirps  the  cricket  quietly. 

The  aster's  bloom,  the  copses  green, 
Grow  darker  in  the  softened  sun, 
And  silent  here  day's  course  is  run, 

A  sheltered  spot  that  smiles  serene. 

It  reaches  far  from  shore  to  shore, 
Nor  house  in  sight,  nor  ship  or  wave, 
A  silent  valley  sweet  and  grave, 

A  refuge  from  the  sea's  wild  roar. 

Nor  gaze  from  yonder  gravelly  height,  — • 
Beneath,  the  crashing  billows  beat, 
The  rolling  surge  of  tempests  meet 

The  breakers  in  their  awful  might. 

And  inland  birds  soft  warble  here, 
Where  golden-rods  and  yarrow  shine, 


MEMORIAL    VERSES.  351 

And  cattle  pasture  —  sparest  kine ! 
A  rural  place  for  homestead  dear. 

Go  not  then,  traveller,  nigh  the  shore, 

In  this  soft  valley  muse  content, 

Nor  brave  the  cruel  element, 
That  thunders  at  the  valley's  door. 

And  bless  the  little  human  dell, 

The  sheltered  copse  wood  snug  and  warm, — 

Retreat  from  yon  funereal  form, 
Nor  tempt  the  booming  surges'  knell. 


n. 
THE  OLD  WRECKER. 

He  muses  slow  along  the  shore, 
A  stooping  form,  his  wrinkled  face 
Bronzed  dark  with  storm,  no  softer  grace 

Of  hope ;  old,  even  to  the  core. 

He  heeds  not  ocean's  wild  lament, 
No  breaking  seas  that  sight  appall,  — 
The  storms  he  likes,  and  as  they  fall 

His  gaze  grows  eager,  seaward  bent. 

He  grasps  at  all,  e'en  scraps  of  twine, 
None  is  too  small,  and  if  some  ship 
Her  bones  beneath  the  breakers  dip, 

He  loiters  on  his  sandy  line. 


352  THOSE  AU. 

Lonely  as  ocean  is  his  mien, 

He  sorrows  not,  nor  questions  fate, 
Unsought,  is  never  desolate, 

Nor  feels  his  lot,  nor  shifts  the  scene. 

Weary  he  drags  the  sinking  beach, 
Undaunted  by  the  cruel  strife, 
Alive,  yet  not  the  thing  of  life, 

A  shipwrecked  ghost  that  haunts  the  reach. 

He  breathes  the  spoil  of  wreck  and  sea, 
No  longer  to  himself  belongs, 
Always  within  his  ear  thy  songs, 

Unresting  Ocean  !  bound  yet  free. 

In  hut  and  garden  all  the  same, 

Cheerless  and  slow,  beneath  content, 
The  miser  of  an  element 

Without  a  heart,  —  that  none  can  claim. 

Born  for  thy  friend,  O  sullen  wave, 

Clasping  the  earth  where  none  may  stand  1 
He  clutches  with' a  trembling  hand 

The  headstones  from  the  sailor's  grave. 


in. 


Unceasing  roll  the  deep  green  waves, 
And  crash  their  cannon  down  the  sand, 
The  tyrants  of  the  patient  land, 

Where  mariners  hope  not  for  graves. 


MEMORIAL    VERSES.  f        353 

The  purple  kelp  waves  to  and  fro, 

The  white  gulls,  curving,  scream  along ; 
They  fear  not  thy  funereal  song, 

Nor  the  long  surf  that  combs  to  snow. 

The  hurrying  foam  deserts  the  sand, 
Afar  the  low  clouds  sadly  hang, 
But  the  high  sea  with  sullen  clang, 

Still  rages  for  the  silent  land. 

No  human  hope  or  love  hast  thou, 

Unfeeling  Ocean,  in  thy  might, 

Away  —  I  fly  the  awful  sight, 
The  working  of  that  moody  brow. 

The  placid  sun  of  autumn  shines,  — 
The  hurrying  knell  marks  no  decline, 
The  rush  of  waves,  the  war  of  brine, 

Force  all,  and  grandeur,  in  thy  lines. 

Could  the  lone  sand-bird  once  enjoy 
Some  mossy  dell,  some  rippling  brooks, 
The  fruitful  scent  of  orchard  nooks, 

The  loved  retreat  of  maid  or  boy. 

No,  no  ;  the  curling  billows  green, 
The  cruel  surf,  the  drifting  sand, 
No  flowers  or  grassy  meadow-land, 

No  kiss  of  seasons  linked  between. 

The  mighty  roar,  the  burdened  soul, 
The  war  of  waters  more  and  more, 
The  waves,  with  crested  foam-wreaths  hoar, 

Rolling  to-day,  and  on  to  roll. 


354  THOREAU. 

IV. 

WINDMILL  ON  THE  COAST. 

With  wreck  of  ships,  and  drifting  plank, 
Uncouth  and  cumbrous,  wert  thou  built, 
Spoil  of  the  sea's  unfathomed  guilt, 

Whose  dark  revenges  thou  hast  drank. 

And  loads  thy  sail  the  lonely  wind, 
That  wafts  the  sailor  o'er  the  deep, 
Compels  thy  rushing  arms  to  sweep, 

And  earth's  dull  harvesting  to  grind. 

Here  strides  the  fisher  lass  and  brings 
Her  heavy  sack,  while  creatures  small, 
Loaded  with  bags  and  pail,  recall 

The  youthful  joy  that  works  in  things. 

The  winds  grind  out  the  bread  of  life, 
The  ceaseless  breeze  torments  the  stone, 
The  mill  yet  hears  the  ocean's  moan, 

Her  beams  the  refuse  of  that  strife. 


v. 


I  hear  the  distant  tolling  bell, 
The  echo  of  the  breathless  sea ; 
Bound  in  a  human  sympathy 

Those  sullen  strokes  no  tidings  tell. 


MEMORIAL    VERSES.  355 

The  spotted  sea-bird  skims  along, 
And  fisher-boats  dash  proudly  by ; 
I  hear  alone  that  savage  cry, 

That  endless  and  unfeeling  song. 

Within  thee  beats  no  answering  heart, 

Cold  and  deceitful  to  my  race, 

The  skies  alone  adorn  with  grace 
Thy  freezing  waves,  or  touch  with  art. 

And  man  must  fade,  but  thou  shalt  roll 
Deserted,  vast,  and  yet  more  grand ; 
While  thy  cold  surges  beat  the  strand, 

Thy  funeral  bells  ne'er  cease  to  toll. 


VI. 

MICHEL  ANGELO  —  AN  INCIDENT. 

Hard  by  the  shore  the  cottage  stands, 
A  desert  spot,  a  fisher's  house, 
Where  could  a  hermit  keep  carouse 

On  turnip-sprouts  from  barren  sands. 

No  church  or  statue  greets  the  view, 
Not  Pisa's  tower  or  Rbme's  high  wall, 
And  connoisseurs  may  vainly  call 

For  Berghem's  goat,  or  Breughel's  hue. 

Yet  meets  the  eye  along  a  shed, 
Blazing  with  golden  splendors  rare, 
A  name  to  many  souls  like  prayer, 

Robbed  from  a  hero  of  the  dead. 


356  THOSE AU. 

It  glittered  far,  the  splendid  name, 
Thy  letters,  Michel  Angelo,  — 
In  this  lone  spot  none  e'er  can  know 

The  thrills  of  joy  that  o'er  me  came. 

Some  bark  that  slid  along  the  main 

Dropped  off  her  headboard,  and  the  sea 
Plunging  it  landwards,  in  the  lee 

Of  these  high  cliffs  it  took  the  lane. 

But  ne'er  that  famous  Florentine 
Had  dreamed  of  such  a  fate  as  this., 
Where  tolling  seas  his  name  may  kiss, 

And  curls  the  lonely  sand-strewn  brine. 

These  fearless  waves,  this  mighty  sea, 
Old  Michel,  bravely  bear  thy  name ! 
Like  thee,  no  rules  can  render  tame, 

Fatal  and  grand  and  sure  like  thee. 


vn. 

Of  what  thou  dost,  I  think,  not  art, 
Thy  sparkling  air  and  matchless  force, 
Untouched  in  thy  own  wild  resource, 

The  tide  of  a  superior  heart. 

Isfo  human  love  beats  warm  below, 
Great  monarch  of  the  weltering  waste, 
The  fisher-boats  make  sail  and  haste, 

Thou  art  their  savior  and  their  foe. 


MEMORIAL    VERSES.  357 

Alone  the  breeze  thy  rival  proves, 

Smoothing  o'er  thee  his  graceful  hand, 
Lord  of  that  empire  over  land, 

He  moves  thy  hatred  and  thy  loves. 

Yet  thy  unwearied  plunging  swell, 

Still  breaking,  charms  the  sandy  reach, 
No  dweller  on  the  shifting  beach, 

No  auditor  of  thy  deep  knell ;  — 

The  sunny  wave,  a  soft  caress ; 

The  gleaming  ebb,  the  parting  day ; 

The  waves  like  tender  buds  in  May, 
A  fit  retreat  for  blessedness. 

And  breathed  a  sigh  like  children's  prayers, 
Across  thy  light  aerial  blue, 
That  might  have  softened  wretches  too, 

Until  they  dallied  with  these  airs. 

Was  there  no  flitting  to  thy  mood  ? 

Was  all  this  bliss  and  love  to  last  ? 

No  lighthouse  by  thy  stormy  past, 
No  graveyard  in  thy  solitude  ! 


Cambridge  :  Press  of  John  Wilson  and  Son. 


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